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THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER. Frontispiece. 



THE 


DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER. 


BY 


SOPHIE MAY , 1 

AUTHOR OF u LITTLE PRUDY STORIES,” “ DOTTY DIMPLE 
STORIES,” ETC. 

/ 


BOSTON 

LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS 

1899 


TWO COPIES RECEIVED, 

Library of Cunyiro*^ 
Office of t fa y 

,1^' 4- 1Q00 

Register of Copyrl 

' 

•c5> 

7 

51042 3 * 

Entered, according to Aot of Congress, in the year 1871, 
By LEE AND SHEPARD, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


Copyright, 1S99, by Rebecca S. Clarke. 


All Rights Reserved. 


The Doctor’s Daughter. 

SECOND COPY. 


lo'14- c i ><3 


Norton oti 39rees : 

Berwick & Smith, Norwood, Mom., U.S.A. 


«K.‘ 

T 

£ 

£ 


The Beginning of the End 9 

CHAPTER II. 

Quinnebasset Girls 19 

CHAPTER III. 

Pauline and Keller 27 

CHAPTER IV. 

Keller and Marian 34 

CHAPTER V. 

A Great Surprise 43 

CHAPTER VI. 

“The Valley of Wormwood.” 49 

CHAPTER VII. 

Brownie Snow 56 

\ 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A Dream that was all a Dream 61 


( 5 ) 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER I. 


PAGB 


CONTENTS. 


t 

CHAPTER IX. 

Afterthoughts 70 

CHAPTER X. 

Thankful’s Thirds 77 

CHAPTER XI. 

Cuba prevails 84 

CHAPTER XII. 

Miss O’Neil expresses her Mind 93 

CHAPTER XIII. 

The Romaunt of the Rose 101 

CHAPTER XIV. 

m 

The Mother-want 110 

CHAPTER XV. 

Dull Days 119 

CHAPTER XVI. 

A New Resolve 126 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Brightening the House 131 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

A Mystery in the Attic. 138 


CONTENTS . 


7 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Bbarding the Lion. 146 

CHAPTER XX. 

A Spring Freshet 158 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Upper Windows 166 

CHAPTER XXII. 

No Head 176 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Cobwebs 186 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Changes 193 

CHAPTER XXV. 

The Symposium 202 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

The First Lover 216 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

The Potato Pan 223 

I 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“Love-shaked.” . 229 


8 


CONTENTS . 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

“Worse than none.” 240 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Aunt Hinsdale puzzled . 252 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

Up Country 259 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

Unjust Suspicions 269 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Platonic Love 280 

CHAPTER XXXI Y . 

Gods and Half-gods 291 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

A Queer Little Story 305 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Queer Little Story continued 315 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


The End, 


327 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

The Doctor’s Daughter Frontispiece 

Keller and his Mother 41 

The Doctor and Miss O’Neil 57 

Thankful’s Letter 78 

In Paradise Lane 114 

Marian and Judith 133 

Marian and Benjie 171 

Marian’s Pleasant Dreams 179 

“ I WAS BROUGHT UP NEVER TO KlSS ” 209 

In the Churchyard 244 

Studying Astronomy 288 

Miss O’Neil walks into the Room 325 


























. 






* 




% 


V 




« 


I 





m 




4 
























S 


ft 







THE 


DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 



“ My child is yet a stranger in the world. 

She hath not seen the change of fourteen years.” 

Shakespeare. 

^ARIAN!” 

yjy No answer. 

The sun had refused himself to everybody 
for the day, and persisted in being “not at home,” 
till at the very last moment he peeped out, with a re- 
lenting smile, which might pass for a good night and a 
blessing. 

A certain face, at a west chamber window, would 
not receive the tardy benediction, but its eyes, covered 
with a little plump hand, looked straight down into the 
bottomless gulf of an old portfolio. 

“Plenty here, but nothing finished. 4 The Woman 
in the Moon.’ Lovely, as far as she goes. ‘ Ode to a 
Dying Dove.’ Something the matter with its feet. 
Wish I could send an article to the ‘Aurora.’ As 

9 


10 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


Judith says, it would be so exciting to hear it read 
before a house full of people, not one of them dreaming 
’twas you! 

“Here are some old compositions. ‘Improvement 
of Time.’ I wrote that for Miss Lightbody. ’Twas 
like drawing a tooth.” 

“ Marian ! ” 

“ ‘ The Four Seasons.’ So stale ! Call ’em jive , for 
variety.” 

“Mary Anne!” 

“ Dear, dear ! How I hate my name, with a little 
indefinite article tucked on to the end of it! Yes, 
Pauline,” — going to the head of the stairs; “what 
do you want ? ” 

“ Don’t strain your eyes, child.” 

“ O, is that all ? I’m not reading, Pauline. I’ll be 
down presently.” 

The little girl tripped back to her room, wafting the 
spicy odor of a late clove pink, which nodded at the 
neck of her dress. But her train of thought had 
been disturbed, and, like a butterfly shaken from one 
flower, she flew to another. 

“ There’s the blank book mamma gave me. I must 
begin it this very night,” said she, dropping the mus- 
lin curtain, and lighting her lamp, though the room 
was flooded with soft twilight. 

“‘You will scarcely use the book, child,’ she says. 
What a piece of fickleness she takes me to be ! But, 
mother dearest, you don’t know your own child. I’m 
going to write a sort of history of my life, and keep it 
under lock and key. I never will consent to have a 
word of it published while I live; but perhaps it will 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


11 


be revised and corrected after I’m gone. At any 
rate, it will be a great comfort to my friends.” 

Marian’s willowy figure bent forward over the book 
in her lap, and the lamp, with a tipsy shade like a 
slouched hat, shone down on a blank book with 
the name, “ Marian Prescott,” and below it the line, 
“Think that To-day shall never dawn again.” 

“Those words are sort of awful, I declare. Only 
things seem different coming from mother — sweet and 
tender, somehow, like her voice. Just see how lightly 
she bears on, as if she were afraid of hurting the 
paper’s feelings ! 

Now, I’m going to give my journal a name. 

Miss Tottenham. 

There, it is written. Why didn’t I say Madame 
Looking-glass ? 

Sept. 3. I am a girl of thirteen. I have a large 
nose — 

I declare, I didn’t think it would be so hard to know 
what to say. What’s the use to describe myself? 

My father is superintendent of the Sabbath school, 
and very much respected in this village. He is also a 
physician. His nose is rather sharp ; but no one need 
say mother holds it to the grindstone ; for she is sweet- 
ness itself. She has not been well for a long while. 
My sister Pauline is five years older than I. She has 
a meek look round the mouth. People say her face is 
like a Madonna. 

(I don’t see how they know; there are so many 
Madonnas.) 


12 


THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER. 


She has too low a forehead. 

(There, I don’t want to go on and say she’s not intel- 
lectual. Still, when you speak of a person’s having a 
low forehead, what can you expect?) 

I have an older brother, Keller, — he means well, 
but is very rattle-brained, — between Pauline and me. 
Then a child of four ; his name is Benjie. 

(The tea bell. Pauline, you were the means of that 
blot! Anybody’d think I was deaf by the way she 
rings.) 

And Marian hurried down stairs, leaving her pretty 
chamber to hold a sort of “ witches’ Sabbath,” — hair- 
brush and Bible turning their backs on one another, 
red apple and amber globe of soap lying cheek to 
cheek, flowers with wet stems trailing over an open 
volume of poetry, and the flaring lamp crying, mutely, 
“ Put me out, put me out, before I crack my chimney.” 

“My patience, if here isn’t Miss O’Neil!” thought 
Marian, her quick feet slackening from the time of a 
waltzing tune to the slowest Old Hundred. 

“ How do you do, Miriam ? ” 

“ Nicely, thank you ; but my name isn’t 4 Miriam,’ ” 
returned the little girl, with an involuntary tilt of the 
chin. 

“What has the cross old thing got against me 
now?” thought she, seating herself at table oppo- 
site the slender-witted spinster, and gazing rather defi- 
antly at her sallow-white cap, with trembling bows of 
heart-broken lilac. 

There was an acidity about Miss O’Neil, as if she had 
been well steeped in the vinegar of crushed hopes ; al- 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


13 


beit she could sometimes flatter so sweetly that you 
would think she had just drawn herself, all sticky and 
dripping, out of a pot of honey. 

That she and Marian were natural enemies might 
be seen at a glance. V ery young people could hardly 
be expected to have much toleration for such a sin- 
gular person as Miss O’Neil. In manners a lady, in 
mind a child, in “ Irish wit ” a second Mrs. Partington, 
she was a bugbear to the Quinnebasset children, who 
were required to treat her with respect, though they 
considered her very little removed from a fool. 

She knew how to eat an egg ; was holding one now 
in her napkin with infinite grace, little end up, and 
dipping out its contents with a tea-spoon. She was 
fond of eggs, and often asked for them when she 
dropped in anywhere to drink a social tea. And why 
shouldn’t she ask for what she wanted? Wasn’t she a 
lineal descendant of the O’Neils of Ireland, who might 
have sat on a throne, but for some reason didn’t? 
Wasn’t she the last fruit on the ancestral tree, the 
others of her family having dropped off early, like sum- 
mer windfalls? And now wasn’t it the duty of the 
Quinnebasset people to take care of her ? 

Especially as she had once attended boarding-school, 
and after that had lost her property, and kept a millin- 
er’s shop in Machias, and of late an A B C school at 
Quinnebasset. 

To say nothing of her urgent claim to everybody’s 
respect on account of always wearing mitts when she 
went visiting. 

“Miriam,” said Miss O’Neil, “they say, if there’s 
any mischief, you are always in front of the rear. But 


14 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


when you went to my school, you used to learn be- 
havior.” 

“What’s coming now?” thought Marian, with a 
side glance at her father, who appeared to be only half 
listening. 

“But you’ve forgotten all the behavior you ever 
knew. I’ve heard with my own lips how you’ve been 
conducting, Miriam Lin scott. When I lived at Ma- 
chias, the young ladies that went to the Select School 
would as soon have thought of breaking the laws of 
the Swedes and Persians as associating with boys.” 

“Nonsense!” said Dr. Prescott; “what have the 
boys done, that they can’t be spoken to ? ” 

“ I shouldn’t think that of you, Dr. Linscott, a man 
that sends his daughter to the Female Academy,” ex- 
claimed Miss O’Neil, flourishing her tea-spoon. 

“ I don’t send her ; it’s her mother’s work. I prefer 
a mixed school, as all sensible people must,” returned 
the doctor, with a mischievous smile. 

V‘ iN-deed ! ” ejaculated Miss O’Neil, smoothing down 
her apron with both hands, as if she were mesmerizing 
herself — a habit of hers when highly excited. “ In- 
deed, Dr. Linscott ! What would they have thought 
of you at Machias, if you’d spoken so there ? ” 

The doctor felt no interest whatever in his standing 
with a dead and gone generation, and passed his tea- 
cup to his daughter Pauline without answering. 

“If you knew, sir, how your little Miriam has 
been conducting, you wouldn’t speak so lightly of 
boys,” continued the lady, with an angry quaver of 
voice. “ She has been — riding — a — calf ! ” 

Dr. Prescott set down his tea-cup suddenly. A 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


15 


burning flush spread over Marian’s face and neck, so 
deep that the clove-pink was lost in it. 

“ Why, Marian ! ” said Pauline, with motherly solici- 
tude; “this cannot be true.” 

“ Answer your sister,” said Dr. Prescott, sternly. 

“Yes, Miriam, tell your father just how you’ve 
been conducting, and see then what he thinks about 
boys.” 

“It hasn’t the least thing to do with boys, Miss 
O’Neil,” said Marian, taking out her handkerchief in 
great agitation ; “ and so anybody would know, except 
people that mix up things in their heads ! Why, fa- 
ther! why, Pauline ! to think you should listen to such 
a story for a minute ! Do you suppose I’m a Hotten- 
tot ? Why, I wouldn’t ride a calf if you’d give me a 
gold saddle! So unladylike! Just think!” 

“Then what are you blushing for!” said Keller, 
bluntly. “You didn’t ride him; but I’ll warrant I 
know who did ! ” 

“ Why, where were you ? Did you look ? Did you 
see?” exclaimed Marian, eagerly; then covered her 
face in confusion at the laugh which followed. 

“There! what did I tell you?” said Miss O’Neil, 
triumphantly. 

“Keller just said that to catch me. You didn’t 
see, Keller, and you don’t know who the girl was, 
now.” 

“No, but I shall soon find out,” thought Keller, add- 
ing aloud, “Sounds like Judith Willard. Father or- 
ders her to take exercise, and I’m sure such a ride 
must be invigorating.” 

“Judith Willard! A perfect lady like Judith! 


16 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


What an idea! When all the exercise she takes is 
her French exercise — that’s what Robert says, and it’s 
pretty nearly true. Judith Willard ! Why, when that 
calf came into the yard, she begged Nao — she begged 
the girl to stop ! ” 

Pauline gave Marian a warning touch with her slip- 
per, under the table ; but Marian was going off in an 
uncontrollable fit of laughter, and did not observe it. 

“ Such a figure ! That calf! Why, he was so fright- 
ened he tried to go over the moon. He just jumped 
and frisked, and away went his feet, flying out as stiff 
as boot-jacks ! And there was Naomi, jouncing up and 
down — ” 

“So ’twas Naomi Giddings,” said Keller, quietly. 
“I supposed so.” 

“What did I say? What did I say??’ exclaimed 
Marian, her voice choked by a rising sob, and muffled 
by a handkerchief. “It’s' all owing to you, Miss 
0 ? Neil. O, how mean of you to come here and make 
me tell tales out of school! It’s just like you, though; 
you’re always — ” 

“ Marian,” said Dr. Prescott, “ leave the table.” 

A hush fell on the little party as the poor girl 
swept out of the room in a tempest of tears. Pauline 
seemed distressed, and Keller remorseful. Miss 
O’Neil made rapid passes over her apron, and looked 
insulted, though evidently rejoiced that the culprit had 
been brought to justice. 

“ I never was sent from the table but twice in my 
life before,” sobbed Marian, flinging herself on the 
wood-box in her mother’s room, “ and then it was for 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


17 


rudeness to Miss O’Neil. And she going about like a 
roaring lion, mamma, picking up gossip ! ” 

Mrs. Prescott doubled the pillow under her head, 
and partly raised herself on her elbow. 

“ My dear child, how can you forget that your father 
insists on your respecting gray hair ? ” 

“ O, mamma, I will, and I do when I see it,” said 
Marian, breaking into another whimsical mixture of 
laughter and tears. “But not false hair — must I? 
And hers is the falsest I ever saw. Brown week days, 
and black Sundays ! ” 

Mrs. Prescott hid a smile in the hem of the pillow- 
case. 

“Never mind about faded fronts or shallow wits 
either, little Marian. We wish our daughter to grow 
up gentle and refined. A true lady never willingly 
wounds the feelings of another.” 

“I know that, mamma, and I do try. But Miss 
O’Neil is so aggravating! and, you see, I’m naturally 
very much like papa; my temperament is the same 
thing right over again.” 

“ Your temperament, dear? What do you mean ?* 

“ O, mamma, don’t, please, be offended ; but we girtw 
of thirteen have a great many thoughts. I know m> 
mind will never be great and scientific, like my fa^ 
• ther’s ; but I’m like him in this ; the moment I think any- 
thing, it runs along to the end of my tongue, and I just 
ache to speak it right out. Now, Pauline is like you; 
she’s got a lock and key to her mouth. O, dear ! O, 
dear ! If I only had it ! ” 

Mrs. Prescott gazed wonderingly at her little daugh. 

2 


18 


THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER. 


ter. Truly girls of thirteen did think straight to the 
point sometimes. 

“ There, there, dear, don’t analyze yourself any more. 
Crush back the tears, bathe your face, and tell me how 
you offended Miss O’Neil.” 

“Why, you see, mamma, it was about a calf that 
came to the Academy gate ; and he did look so funny, 
with a white heart in his forehead ! and I suppose it 
was I that let him in, though Marie Smith had the 
melon rind — she’d just been eating watermelon. 
We never thought of anybody’s riding the calf; but one 
of the girls did it. And those poplar trees aren’t 
worth a cent for shading the yard ; so I suppose some- 
body looked over and saw; and Miss O’Neil got half 
the story, as usual, and came here on purpose, and 
called for her boiled eggs, and set Keller curious. And 
I was taken by surprise ; so I told who the girl was. 
I ask you if it wasn’t mean of Miss O’Neil. I’m sorry 
for you and my father that I snubbed her, but not on 
her account, I declare. 

“ For , don’t I know how ’twill be ? My father’ll take 
me out of the Academy. He never liked it, and now 
be’ll think it’s horrid. Just for that silly woman, mam- 
ma. She hates the High School, but she’s pushing me 
right into it. 

“Just like her! So Irish!” 


^ UINNEBASSE T GIRLS. 


19 


CHAPTER II. 

QUINNEBASSET GIRLS. 

t HERE is a smooth-tongued river which lies 
peacefully in its bed all summer, coaxing the 
trees upon its banks to rest their shadows on 
its tranquil bosom, yet often rises in rage at the first 
storms of autumn, tearing away the very trees it had 
been holding so tenderly. 

This fitful little river once did a thriving business, 
turning sawmills at Quinnebasset ; but in one of its 
mad freaks it carried them away, and the town never 
quite recovered from their loss. The current of trade 
set towards Poonoosac, the terminus of the new railroad, 
five miles below ; and the two small mills afterwards 
rebuilt at Quinnebasset had little to do beyond sawing 
lumber for village use, or grinding corn for home-made 
johnny-cakes. 

So bereaved Quinnebasset sat down with folded 
hands among her hills to think. Her brain grew more 
than her muscle. She ran to courts and schools. A 
little removed from the main street stood the jail, hid- 
ing behind the court-house, as crime sometimes hides 
behind the cloak of justice. The court-house was of red 
brick, and wore a pointed crown. It had an arrogant, 
worldly air, which the white church next it rebuked at 


20 THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

sunset by laying the shadow of its spire, like a warning 
finger, upon its showy decorations. In Marian’s little- 
girlhood these buildings had seemed emblematical. 
Red represented the law, while the gospel was pure 
White. 

As for schools, there was the Female Academy on 
the south side, built of imposing brick, hiding her clas- 
sic head behind two Lombardy poplars, which, as Marian 
had said, were “not worth a cent for shading the 
yard” (when the girls were playing at romps). There 
was the High School on the north side, held in the old 
white school-house every autumn by some learned 
youth, half or three fourths out of college. 

Then there was Miss O’Neil’s infant class, in her 
cottage, so low roofed, that the rain-trough under the 
front eaves drooped over the cross-eyed windows, like 
unruly hair over a child’s eyes. Her wooden doorstep 
was no larger than a Thanksgiving platter ; but at nine 
o’clock in the morning you would see it crowded with 
little folks dreading to enter the house. They were 
sent partly from charity, partly to be “ got out of the 
way;” but the time and patience it had cost their 
mammas to start them off would have kept them 
happy at home, whereas at school they were sure to be 
wretched; for Miss O’Neil, considering the small size 
of her brain, had the greatest talent ever known for 
making little folks cry. 

“She sets me under the table, side of a mouse’s 
trap,” whimpered Benjie, dragged along between his 
sister Marian and her friend Judith Willard. “ When 
I’m a growed-up man, I won’t go to Miss ErNeil to the 
longest day I live.” 


UINNEBA SSE T GIRLS. 


21 


Marian and Judith exchanged smiles of heartfelt 
sympathy. 

“Poor little fellow! Don’t we know the whole 
story, Judith ? I should think we might, when we 
‘learned behavior’ at the same school. I’ve been think- 
ing lately how hard it is always to do the very things 
you most despise. Always, you know — as long as you 
live at home, I mean. For your parents think it’s for 
your good, and never notice how it takes the heart 
right out of you.” 

“ There, Marian, don’t say a word — you that have a 
mother. What if she doesn’t understand you ? Think 
of me, with none ! ” 

“ But this is my father entirely. He says I’m be- 
coming a complete hoiden. That’s why he sends me 
among those great boys. He considers it a ‘ restrain- 
ing influence.’ They don’t ride calves — O, no.” 

“ Marian, that school isn’t high-toned.” 

“ Plebeian as can be, Judith. Why, the tuition is a 
dollar less than we give at the Academy, and there’s a 
week more in a term. Those facts speak for them- 
selves, you see. But my father” — Marian, in her 
pride of ownership, always said my father — “thinks 
of nothing but science and masteroid processes. 
What does he know of the way we girls feel about let- 
ting ourselves down to associate with boys?” 

“Very true, Marian; but if you go to the High 
School, I shall go too.” 

“O, Judith, I don’t ask it. I don’t expect it.” 

“ Pshaw ! what are friends good for if they can’t 
Tmake sacrifices?” said Judith, heroically. 


22 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“ Jude, you are a blessed old darling ! ” cried Marian, 
giving Benjie’s hand an emphatic little squeeze. 

There was an eloquent pause, during which both girls 
probably meditated upon the nature of true friendship. 

“There’s one good thing about it, and that’s the 
Lyceum. O, have you written for the paper, Judith? 
You know we promised Keller we’d try.” 

“ No,” sighed Judith. “ I had to finish off a sock for 
aunt Esther. You know how I’m situated. But do 
you suppose they’d accept this acrostic? — My last 
composition, you remember.” 

Marian took the paper, which was written in rather 
a quaint, cramped hand. 

“ C omposition, hateful name ! 

O , it chills my feeble frame. 

M any a sigh escapes my breast, 

P enning lines at your request. 

O nly let me be excused ! 

S ure I cannot be refused. 

* f mine were a genius rare, 

T lien I’d find some thoughts to spare. 

I , alas ! have none at all, 

O r, at most, ’tis very small. 

N ow, pray, excuse me, do, this fall.’ 

“ Good metre,” said Marian, running it over with a 
wise look. “Here we are at Miss O’Neil’s. Now, 
Benjie, be polite to her; there’s a little man. I mean 
to bring him up to respect her false hair, if I don’t, 
Judith.” 

“ But what do you think of my poetry ? ” pursued 
J udith, anxiously. “ W ould you drop it in the box, or 
not?” 


Q UINNEBA SSE T GIRLS. 


23 


“You ask me just as if my word was law. Yes, I 
would put it in, by all means,” replied Marian, her face 
expressing as settled a conviction as if she were foreman 
of a jury. “ I don’t know that it’s quite the thing for 
me to say; but, Jude, I actually think you’re a genius.” 

There was a triumphant flash in Judith’s eyes at these 
words, which would have illuminated the “Aurora” glo- 
riously, if it could only have got into the box ! 

“Yes, dear; I wouldn’t say what I didn’t believe. 
How queer it is, when you just think of it, that two 
friends, like you and me, should both have a talent for 
poetry ! ” 

The flash in Judith’s eyes faded a little. So she must 
share her laurels with Marian, though she knew, away 
down in her secret soul, that Marian had no true ear 
for rhythm, having more than once translated her Latin 
exercises into heroic verse with as many feet as a cat- 
erpillar. 

“ She doesn’t know false measure when I show it to 
her,” mused Judith, with an abstracted look in the di- 
rection of a pair of oxen, which she probably did not 
see, but very likely saw through. 

“Yes, I declare, they do look like goblins with their 
hair on end ! ” „ 

“ What, the oxen ? ” 

“ O, no, Marian ; our Academy poplars.” 

“ What an idea, Judith ! Is that original ? ” 

“No, I read it. See how their hair seems to stand 
right up straight, and that weeping willow’s hair over 
in Mrs. Selden’s yard hangs right down over its shoul- 
ders. Such a contrast ! ” 

But Marian did not answer. She was running to 


24 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


meet a party of girls who were pouring out of the 
yard. 

“O, girls, girls, that calf has just ruined me en' 
tirely ! ” 

“What calf? O, I know. Where did he hurt 
you ? ” returned Marie Smith, taking a mellow cucum- 
ber out of her pocket. 

“Girls, just listen; that everlasting Miss Soap- 
suds — ” 

“ Who’s she ? ” interrupted the literal Marie, paring 
her cucumber. 

“Why, Miss O’Neil. She came to our house last 
night, just bubbling over. And it was ‘Miriam Lin- 
scott,’ she said, ‘ that did all the mischief, and went in 
front of the rear.’ And such a scolding about boys, 
when all the while she meant calves. Somehow my 
tongue slipped, with her and Keller both teasing me, 
and I spoke Naomi’s name right out. Now, girls, you 
don’t think I’d be so mean as to tell on purpose? Say, 
do you?” 

“No, indeed,” cried a chorus of voices; “but never 
mind ; Mrs. Uackett knows ; so it’s all over town by 
this time, and your telling didn’t make the least differ- 
ence.” 

“ That isn’t what I care for,” added Marian, with a 
wistful look at the dear old Academy ; “ but I’ve got 
to leave school. My father hasn’t liked it for a long 
while ; he thinks it’s , too free and easy ; and now he’s 
going to see Miss Lightbody, and tell her he prefers to 
have me study with Keller.” 

“O, what a shame!” exclaimed the young ladies; 


UINNEBA SSE T GIRLS. 


25 


“just for Naomi Giddings ! He needn’t think we’re all 
such romps as she ! ” 

Naomi was decidedly unpopular, and as she hap- 
pened to be absent, it was the most natural thing in 
the world to stab her in the back. 

“We can’t spare you,” cried half a dozen girls, 
crowding around Marian like needles round a magnet. 
“ What gay old times we’ve had together ! ” 

“ Who’ll bring milk to eat with my pickles ? ” said 
Marie. 

“ Who’ll make up faces for us on the slate ? ” said 
another. 

“ How poky ’twill be, with nobody to set us all laugh- 
ing!” 

“Don’t say a word,” returned Marian, with tears in 
her eyes, though highly gratified, nevertheless. “ I feel 
as if I belonged here. There’s no place like home. I’d 
like to carry off those dear old piazza pillars, scrawled 
with all your handwritings.” 

Perhaps “friendship publishments” were peculiar to 
Quinnebasset ; at any rate, here at the Female Acade- 
my they were paraded on the pillars in pencil-mark, as 
much a matter of course as the publishments of mar- 
riage on the outside of the meeting-house. Thus : — 

(“Man an Prescott and Judith Willard, sworn 
friends.”) 

(“Mane Smith and Oscaforia Jones, sworn friends.”) 

Each pair enclosed in brackets, which seemed to 
shut them in to a sort of sacred privacy. 

“ W ell, there,” said Marian, shaking off a tear, “ I’m 
not Samson, and can’t move pillars ; but I can do bet- 


26 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


ter. I can move Judith. She’s going to the High 
School, too.” 

“Judith ? Why, that’s too bad,” exclaimed the girls, 
with feeble remonstrance. 

“Precious little they care,” thought Judith, setting 
her lips together proudly. Yet there were girls there 
who did not like Marian, whereas of Judith it might 
be said that she never had an enemy. 


PAULINE AND KELLER. 


27 


CHAPTER III. 


PAULINE AND KELLER. 



O you suppose it’s anything like the brand of 
asked J udith, thoughtfully. “ Only 
in a different part of the face ? ” 

The question had reference to a slight blemish on 
the High School teacher’s otherwise pleasing counte- 
nance — a brown mark, the size of a large copper cent, 
high up on the left cheek-bone. 

“ O, no,” replied Marian, confidently. “ Cain’s mark 
was not visible ; so the Bible Dictionary says. That 
reminds me that last summer I wrote an essay on 
him.” 

“An essay on Cain!” 

“Yes; my father wishes us to learn Bible his- 
tory; so he gives us books of reference, and has us 
write long strings of things he calls essays. It’s capital 
fun ; but you ought to see what a bungle Keller makes 
of it. I actually pity him sometimes; and, Judith, do 
you know he is to speak in Lyceum next week? I de- 
clare I shall want to stay at home.” 

Judith said nothing; but she thought Dr. Prescott’s 
children ought to find no task too difficult for them. 
Ah, if she herself only had such a father ! She and 
Marian had now been attending the High School some 


28 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


days. It was humiliating indeed to go from the aris* 
tocratic walls of the Female Academy to a low-ceiled 
school-house ; from cane-seated chairs to wooden 
benches ; from elegant desks — behind whose lids you 
could eat taffy and peanuts — to rude ones, with 
nothing but sliding boards to answer the purpose of 
drawers. 

Still there is a silver lining to every clond, if one 
could only get on the right side to look for it. Mr. 
Loring was a better scholar and a more faithful teacher 
than Miss Lightbody. He was no stranger to the 
girls, being a law student of Judge Dillingham’s, and a 
frequent visitor at Dr. Prescott’s. Moreover Marian 
and Judith had not been doing much in Latin, beyond 
translating a few odes of Horace into very irregular 
metre; and, in their blind ignorance of the Gram- 
mar, it was rather stimulating to find themselves now 
in a class where they were required to give a reason 
and a rule, and no allowance made for mistakes. 

“ If it is plebeian here, it’s thorough,” said Marian. 
“O, how we’ve been galloping over our Arithmetic! 
Don’t you feel ashamed ? ” 

“On the whole,” admitted Judith, “perhaps it’s as 
well we came. And then, too, we can be such a help 
to the boys ! ” 

Robert Willard might have smiled if he had heard 
Judith say this. He felt himself well fitted to stand 
up and brave the storms of life without any aid from 
his delicate young sister. Keller Prescott, too, would 
have scorned the idea of being influenced by a girl! 
Still, they liked to have Marian and Judith at school, 


PAULINE AND KELLER. 


29 


and in their classes, if only for the sake of getting a 
stronger assurance of their own superiority. 

“ Pauline ! ” cried Keller, slamming the side-door like 
a north-easter ; “ where’s Pauline ? ” 

“ In the dining-room,” called she. “ Don’t step on 
the tacks.” 

“ Who cares for tacks ? I’m on the affirmative, and 
the boys are all up about it.” 

“Up? What for?” said Pauline, coolly, continuing 
to nail down the oil-cloth in front of the stove. 

“ What for? Why, because I’m put on the question, 
instead of one of the rest. I’m the first boy in my 
class that has had such an honor,” added he, jogging 
his sister’s elbow, by way of pointing the remark. 
“ I suppose you know that.” 

“ I know you’ve made me pound my finger.” 

“ Hit the wrong nail, hey ? Sorry ! I’m off now to 
consult the Cyclopaedias. Got to read up from the 
foundation of the world down to the last town-meet- 
ing. — Where’s Josephus ? ” 

“Josephus! Do tell me, have you got to speak on 
theology ? ” said Pauline, laying down the hammer. 

“Of course not. Question reads, ‘Resolved, that 
the evil men do lives after them; the good is oft in- 
terred with their bones.’ That’s Shakespeare ; Antony 
said it of Caesar. I contend that Antony was right. I 
think precisely the reverse, mind you; but when we 
speechify, we do it for the sake of argument, you under- 
stand.” 

“ To be sure,” laughed Pauline. “ Now my advice to 
you is, just to shut yourself into the library, and not 


30 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


come out till tea-time. You know how it is with you; 
it’s so hard for you to fix your thoughts ! ” 

“ Why, Pauline ! ” exclaimed the boy, evidently 
wounded. “Just mention anybody that can harp on 
one string longer than I can.” 

“On a bow-string or a fish-line,” thought Pauline, 
but wisely refrained from saying it. She had her own 
private convictions as to the success her brother would 
meet with in writing, and gazed after him wistfully, as 
he crossed the narrow isthmus of entry, and passed 
into the sitting-room. He did not stop to have any 
words with Marian, who was at the bay window, help- 
ing Benjie blow bubbles, but passed on, across the front 
entry into his father’s office, and out of that into the 
library — a small room, whose walls were lined with 
books, and whose door had the advantage of a good 
lock and key. 

For a while there was a great noise of dragging heavy 
volumes across the floor, and shoving chairs against 
the table, with a monotonous undertone of whistling ; 
and in the course of an hour Keller emerged from the 
library, his hair standing up fierce and thick, like the 
Black Forest, the daring look gone from his face, and 
his full black eyes wide open with the stare of a som- 
nambulist. 

“ Pauline,” said he, stealthily waylaying her, as she 
was bringing butter out of the cellar, “ I’ve got ideas 
enough ; fact is, I’ve got too many. All that pesters 
me is, what to do with ’em. Suppose, — well, you 
know, suppose I tell you exactly what to write, and 
then you write it.” 


PAULINE AND KELLER . 31 

Pauline met her brother’s rather sheepish look with 
a good-natured smile. 

“Yes, my boy; but let me toast the bread first; and 
you run in and ask mother whether she’ll have currant 
jelly or quince marmalade.” 

“ Pauline, you’re a diamond,” said Keller, with a re- 
lieved look. 

But his exalted opinion of her was destined to a fall. 
With the best intentions in the world, she could not 
seize the thoughts he did not give her. Keller had a 
high ideal. Away up out of reach, he dimly saw the 
very thing he wanted — an iron chain of argument, fes» 
tooned with graceful flowers of rhetoric. O, if he could 
only get at it ! 

“I want the speech to be real sound, you know, and 
sort of elegant, too. We must get in something about 
Brutus. ‘Be ready, gods,’ says he, ‘with all your 
thunderbolts ; dash him to pieces ! ’ and so forth. ‘ Put 
a tongue in every wound of Caesar,’ says Antony. 
Something about Nero and his fiddle, and Bloody 
Mary, an c i that wicked old what’s-her-name that 
stirred up the Huguenot fight. Something about 
Oliver Cromwell — wouldn’t you ? And Scripture, too. 
4 As a tree lieth, so shall it fall.’ And nobody re- 
members anything now of Andre but those papers in 
his boots. Evil lives after men, you understand ; the 
good is buried with their bones — that’s the point of 
the argument. And wind oif with a verse of Paradise 
Lost, or some such.” 

“ Why, Keller Prescott,” said Pauline, laughing out- 
right, “you’re worse than Miss O’Neil! Of all the 


32 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


whirlabout heads ! Go to Marian, and see if you can 
make her understand. I’m sure I haven’t the 
brains.” 

“ Marian ! What does she know of logic ? ” said Kel- 
ler, wheeling suddenly round, and stalking out of the 
room with ineffable disdain. 

“ Poor boy, I wish I could help him,” thought the 
kind elder sister; “but it is evident I was not intended 
for the rostrum. And of course he is too proud to go 
to father.” 

That ^as the last Pauline heard of “ the affirmative ” 
till the next W ednesday evening, when she started for 
the Lyceum with fear and trembling, Marian and Ju- 
dith trudging beside her in the moonlight. 

“ W on’t it seem odd to hear our Keller speak before 
all those people ? ” said Marian. “ Against Silas Hack- 
ett, too, who has such a nimble tongue ! So still as 
the boy has kept ! How could, he get a speech ready 
without turning the whole house upside down ? ” 

“Don’t borrow trouble, child,” said the older sister, 
uneasily; but she herself needed the warning. Her 
family pride was strong, and she had a restless forebod- 
ing of mortification to come. 

Judith, for her part, was in a little flutter of sus- 
pense regarding her poem. Would, or would it not, 
be received ? 

The seats were well filled to-night. Many of the 
boys were forced to stand against the walls, wriggling 
their caps between their teeth, the awful president 
watching them from his desk. 

Marian and Pauline looked around for Keller. 


PAULINE AND KELLER. 33 

He was sitting quite serene in one of the middle 
seats, snuffing a candle between a jackknife and 
a slate, kerosene lamps being forbidden by Lyceum 
law. What was the boy thinking of, to be so 
calm ? 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER IV. 


KELLER AND MARIAN. 


LORING, the president, had told Pauline 
Keller was not to open the question, and 
this was a great relief to the anxious sister. 

There were two disputants on each side, and the first 
to rise was Pitkin Jones. Keller snuffed the candle, 
and smiled ironically. There was always more or less 
smiling when Pitkin spoke. His hands were very 
white, and he kept them waving like flags of truce, or 
poked them through his hair till it resembled the 
course of true love, which never did run smooth. Some 
of the young girls listened to him with rapt attention. 
To be sure, they did not clearly understand what he 
was talking about, but then the mystification was de- 
lightful. Judith thought it sounded like Tennyson. 
After quite a lengthy harangue, Pitkin gave his vest 
pocket a final pound, and sat down, amid loud applause 
from the small boys. 

“ If I haven’t more logic than that fellow, I hope I 
may be shot,” thought Keller, conning over and over 
the words of his speech: “Mr. President: sir, I rise on 
this occasion,” &c. He had it safe and sure. Ever 
since Pauline had said, “You know, Keller, how hard 
it is for you to fix your thoughts,” he had worked at 


KELLER AND MARIAN. 


35 


that speech, to use his own comparison, “like a Dutch 
dog at a churn.” It was not absolutely perfect, per- 
haps, but he did think a youth of his age had seldom 
written one as good. He was not vain ; but facts are 
facts, and in this case would speak for themselves. 

Next in order came Silas Hackett. “Glad I have 
the use of my legs,” thought Keller. “ He walks like a 
galvanized frog.” His motions were certainly rather 
jerky ; but then, as the villagers declared, “ Silas was 
tongue-y.” He knew what he had to say, and said 
it; and, though he might not round his sentences as 
well as that piece of eloquence, Pitkin Jones, yet he 
could point them better ; and, when you are debating 
a question, point is something. Pauline might well 
dread to have her brother rise after the sensible Mr. 
Hackett. 

And now comes Keller Prescott. Really he is a 
handsome youth. His face is very pale, as if at a white 
heat, and a strange fire burns in his eyes. How he 
gets down the aisle he does not know, for his legs have 
suddenly turned into a pair of walking-sticks — no 
joints — no feet. Talk of galvanized frogs! But in 
some mysterious way he finds himself “taking the 
floor,” which spins under him. 

The air is full of eyes — every eye pricking along his 
nerves like a needle. He tries to speak, but there is 
something in his throat — it is his heart! Yes, it 
thumps close to his palate, fills his whole chest, has be- 
come as large, to say the least, as a bass drum. Now he 
has somehow got inside of it. Speaking may let him 
out ; it must, it will. 


36 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


lie turns his back upon Mr. Loring, and convulsively 
shrieks, with a wild bow at nothing, — 

“Mr. President!” 

What ! It is a whisper ! 

lie Avheels right about face. 

“Mr. President: sir!” 

This time it is a hoarse growl, like “low and mutter- 
ing summer thunder.” 

“ Mr. Prescott,” responds the president, with an en- 
couraging smile. 

But where is Keller’s speech ? He throws up both 
hands, but he cannot catch it ; could as soon grasp the 
evening star. A moment ago it was here; now where? 
Gone ! “ Gone, like the light, quick shiver of a wing.” 

“Well, I might as well give up now. I’ve been and 
gone and done it this time,” thinks poor Keller, with a 
vague pity for the boys he had formerly laughed at. He 
looks up, reckless with despair. Out of the sea of eyes 
one pair shines down on him with love and good cheer. 
It was as if Pauline had sung to her boy, — 

“There’s a light in the window for thee.” 

That great bass drum dissolved like a bank of fog. 
Keller felt that he was out of it; he was free. Pauline 
shouldn’t be ashamed of him ; he would surprise her 
just as he had all aiong intended to do. 

And, with one of the sudden transitions, so charac- 
teristic of the boy, he roused himself, shook off his stage 
fright, took a bold step forward, made a graceful bow, 
and finding his speech would not come back, began 
with perfect ease to — make up another. 

“ The question is, Mr. President, does the evil men 


KELLER AND MARIAN. 37 

do live after them, while the good is interred with their 
bones ? I contend that it does.” 

A slight pause. Marian leaned forward, with lips 
apart. Pauline sat motionless. “ What would he say 
next ? ” That was precisely what the boy was curious 
to know himself! 

“ Mr. President : Mark Antony felt very bitter when 
he 9aid those words. And he had reason to,” continued 
Keller, his voice gathering force as he went on, till 
its clear boyish ring was heard to the farthest corner 
of the room. “ Mark Antony knew the Romans had 
forgotten all Caesar’s noble deeds, and were swooping 
down on him like a flock of vultures on. a dead lion. 
O, yes ! And Antony didn’t dare to praise him. O, 
no! For the Romans thought he had one fault — he 
was too ambitious. 

“And, Mr. President, it’s just so this minute. You 
let a man do one bad thing, and that’s the end of him. 
Let two men come here to Quinnebasset, sir; one just 
out of our jail — been in for stealing a horse; and the 
other hadn’t ; he had behaved himself, and taken care 
of his mother. Well, who’d notice the good man? 
He’d only done his duty, sir. And in case he should 
die, how many of us would go to his funeral, Mr. Pres- 
ident, he being a stranger? And wouldn’t the good 
he’d done be shovelled right on top o’ the coffin with 
the dirt, sir ? To be sure it would ; and perhaps the 
sexton would drive in a stick for a gravestone, and per- 
haps he wouldn’t. 

“ But now there’s that horse thief, Mr. President. 
His work follows him! And it’s all the work he gets, 
Mr. President. Why, you wouldn’t let him black your 


38 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


boots, sir! There isn’t a woman in this town would 
let him black her stove, sir. 

“And supposing he should die, would the evil be 
shovelled into his grave? Not a bit of it! If he 
leaves a family, I declare they ought to be pitied. 
Everybody’d remember their father was a jail-bird. 
The evil lives after him, don’t you see, sir? and you 
can’t kill it out, any more than Canada thistles. 

“That’s all I have to say, Mr. President. It’s no 
use to talk all night, sir, on a plain question like this.” 

Whereupon the young orator marched to his seat, 
and quietly snuffed out his candle. 

“Well done,” said all faces; and the small boys 
clapped with a will. Pauline sent him a glance of 
hearty approval; but Keller kept his head turned 
away, watching a little libation of candle-grease cool- 
ing on his thumb. He seemed to shrink, with boyish 
modesty, from meeting any one’s eyes, when all were 
so eloquent of praise. 

There was more speaking, after which the vote was 
taken, and the knotty question “ laid on the table.” 

Then came the paper. Judith listened with throb- 
bing heart, hoping, yet dreading, to hear her acrostic. 
Marian’s cheeks turned suddenly white. What was 
Mr. Lyman reading about a “ wanderer on the face of 
the earth ” ? Her own words, scribbled on a slate in 
the barn ! Her essay on Cain, composed at her father’s 
request, and “pooh-poohed” by him as very “bombas- 
tic.” How had it crept into the “Aurora”? She 
had certainly left it in the big atlas in the library. 
Who knew but her father had given it to Mr. Lyman 
with his own hands? Then he must have liked it bet* 


KELLER AND MARIAN. 


39 


ter than he pretended. Didn’t it sound grand, though ? 
The sentences rolled along like battle music, with, now 
and then, a terrific crash. Marian was in ecstasies. If 
her father were only there to hear! How proud he 
would be of his son and daughter, if he could only 
know 

But Marian was not left to revel in perfect triumph. 
Mr. Lyman finished reading, folded the sheet, looked 
up, and said, — 

“This article must be heard with indulgence, on 
account of the extreme youth of the writer.” 

“Isn’t that mean?” thought trembling Marian, 
“ when it would have passed for a grown-up piece ! ” 

To her relief, however, the audience all kept their 
seats, and did not even turn their heads, as might have 
been expected, to gaze about the house with curiosity ; 
otherwise she knew she should have blushed and be- 
trayed herself. 

“Judith,” said she, as they walked home together, 
arm in arm, “what did Mr. Lyman mean by saying, 
‘This article must be heard with indulgence?’ Now, 
was that a compliment, or not ? ” 

“ O, a compliment, of course.” 

“Do you really think so? I — I — was afraid he 
might have meant the thing was so silly he had to 
make excuses for it. But wasn’t it queer it should 
have got into the paper, when I never put it there, and 
your acrostic, that you did put in, wasn’t read at all ? 
What in the world — ” 

‘Ilush, Marian; Mr. Loring and Pauline are just 
behind us,” whispered heart-sore Judith, too proud to 
talk about her trials. That was always the way, sh$ 


40 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


thought. To Marian all the bright and rare things, to 
herself nothing but disappointments. There was a 
difference even in their dresses. Marian’s fitted 
smoothly, her own never did; they were as full o 
wrinkles as an old woman’s face. It wasn’t fair to 
tell her this was because she stooped; she knew 
better. It was because they were fadged out of old- 
fashioned, second-hand things. Aunt Esther had once 
been a tailoress, but Judith couldn’t see that that was 
any reason she should try to fit dresses. She wished 
aunt Esther didn t “ feel such an interest.” “ With six 
children to feed and clothe, folks must be 4 equinomi - 
cal ,’ or they can’t make both ends meet.” So said the 
good woman, as she trimmed Judith’s linings, making 
both ends of the scissors meet in the child’s neck. 

Now, this was rather vexing, when, as everybody 
knew, Mr. Willard was a “fore-handed” merchant, 
worth twice as much as Dr. Prescott. 

Perhaps we all of us unconsciously envy somebody, 
and I am sure poor little Judith had no idea she was 
murmuring against Providence, when she wished she 
had a sweet mother, like Mrs. Prescott, instead of 
“ equinomical ” aunt Esther, and wished she had an 
older sister Pauline, and wished — 

But before she had “ swung round the circle ” of her 
wishes Marian gave her elbow a squeeze, and called her 
attention to Robert, just in advance of them, saying to 
Miss O’Neil, “Will you take my arm?” For the 
last of the royal Irish family was limping with a 
wretchedly tight shoe ; and, disagreeable as she might 
be, and often as she had boxed his ears, Robert would 
go out of his way any time to befriend her, simply 



KELLER AND HIS MOTHER. Page 41. 




KELLER AND MARIAN. 


41 


because she was a forlorn old soul, and he was nat- 
urally chivalrous towards women. 

“ Thank you, Samuel. I always thought everything 
of your family,” replied Miss O’Neil, graciously, accept- 
ing the proffered arm with a smile like sunshine on 
clear honey. “You learned your behavior at my 
school, dear. You are as polite as the young men at 
Machias.” 

“Just hear that Soapsuds!” whispered Marian. 
“ Why, Rob’s taller than she is. Isn’t he mon- 
strous ? ” 

Judith thought not. He was just right, shaggy 
head, high shoulders, and all. And that reminded 
her that she loved him dearly, and that Marian hadn’t 
everything in the world, after all. 

“ Perhaps he isn’t as handsome as Keller ; but I 
guess beauty isn’t everything,” said she, straighten- 
ing her shoulders. 

“ O, Rob’s worth two of Keller,” said Marian, coolly : 
“ I always knew that.” 

“Well, I never,” returned Judith, much pleased. 
“If I thought so I wouldn’t own it. What a queer 
girl you are ! ” 

They had now reached Dr. Prescott’s. As Marian 
entered the sitting-room, she was surprised to see 
her mother in the easy-chair; for since her recent ill- 
ness, Mrs. Prescott seldom sat up late of an evening. 
Keller, who had been at home some minutes, was 
kneeling on the rug at her feet, making extravagant 
gestures. 

“Why, mother, I was surprised at myself! Tell you 
what, sir ; I hadn’t the least idea I could make such a 


42 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


speech ! Off hand, too ! Extempore. Why it flashed 
out of my mouth, sir, just like forked lightning.” 

Here Keller, seeing Marian, sprang up in some con- 
fusion. These little private confabs he sometimes held 
with his mother were intended for her ear alone. It 
was embarrassing to have them overheard by a third 
person. 


A GREAT SURPRISE. 


43 


CHAPTER V. 

A GREAT SURPRISE. 

“ Be good, fair maid, and let who will be clever; 

Do noble deeds, not dream them, all day long. 

And so make life, death, and the vast forever 
One grand, sweet song.” 

t jHERE, mother wrote that on this card more 
than a year ago, and when she gave it to me, I 
slipped it right into my journal. It was the 
next day after my essay on Cain was read in the 
Lyceum, and I suppose my head was a little high, and 
mother noticed it. 

“I am glad it was not you who put that article 
in the paper,” said she ; u it was more excusable in 
Keller.” 

She and my father have such a way of taking people 
down ! Mother does it gently, just as she would draw 
her Madeira vine away from the sun ; but my father 
does it with a thump. I understand my father, and I 
don’t care ; but Keller feels it ; it makes him sore. 

After that first speech of his at the Lyceum, when 
he thought himself a second Cicero, and went about 
the house declaiming before all the looking-glasses, my 
father told him he mustn’t be lifted up by that one 


44 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


success ; he mustn’t think words would always flow 
right into his mouth. 

“ Why,” said my father, “ you had been thinking of 
the subject so much, that, even though you forgot your 
written speech, the ideas were all in your mind. So 
don’t fancy you can do without hard work. Don’t go 
into the floor to make a speech, trusting to the inspira- 
tion of the moment.” 

But Keller only thought my father didn’t appreciate 
him, and he put on that look of his, as if he knew bet- 
ter than anybody else, which is so provoking in Keller. 
And next time he spoke he didn’t prepare himself at 
all ; and what a piece of work he made ! A great 
lawyer he’ll be, if he doesn’t apply himself more ! I 
wish he were like Robert Willard ; and then again I 
don’t know that I do. Rob’s so big and clumsy ! And 
what outlandish-looking coats his aunt Esther does 
make for him! 

But there, I mustn’t sit dreaming. My father says 
reveries are very enervating to the mind. Not that 
this is exactly a reverie, though ; not like Judith’s. 
She gets lost in hers, like a thick fog. Come out here, 

Miss Tottenham. 

March 3. (It is more than a year, Miss T., since 
you and I had a chat. I do feel ashamed. But 
writing is not easy for me ; it’s like catching thistle- 
down. What has happened this year ?) 

Mother has had several ill turns. My father talks of 
sending her to Cuba. 

(That looks badly in black and white. Still I am 
sure there is no danger of her dying. Miss O’Neil said 


A GREAT SURPRISE. 


45 


to her once, “I hope you’re prepared for the other 
world, Mrs. Linscott ; your case is alarming.” “ Don’t 
say alarming,” answered my dear mother, with a 
smile. “ I am not afraid ; I know God will do 
right.” And so He will, i am sure. He cannot mean 
to take her away from us. There are women who can 
be spared, hard as it must be, — but not my mother. 
But think of Miss O’Neil exhorting Aer, when she’s an 
angel, and has belonged to the church for years and 
years !) 

Pauline is as good as ever. 

(Yes, she never scolds any one but me. She comes 
often, and puts my room to rights, and then reads me 
a little lecture ; but I try to be patient. I know dirt 
and disorder annoy Pauline very much; there’s the 
trouble. Her mind runs on such trifles.) 

She would make a capital wife. 

(I never thought of such a thing till last week, and 
then it flashed into my mind, Why does Mr. Loring 
come here so much to read German, when they don’t 
always read it ? And I made that remark to Pauline, 
and she only said, just as red as a rose, “Little girls 
shouldn’t be always surmising.” I don’t know what 
you call surmising. I don’t think I surmised before, 
but now I do ; I can’t help it.) 

Judith and I have been going to High School 
autumns, and to town school winters, and I think we 
have learned well ; and it has been a help to the boys. 
Robert was always as steady as a mill, but Keller 
is very flighty. He ran away when he was twelve 
years old. 

(There, I wish I hadn’t written that ! He can learn 


46 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


quicker than I ; but he puts it off till the last minute, 
playing base ball or something, so I get ahead of him ; 
but that mortifies him, and then he studies with a ven- 
geance. I ought not to record how he ran away, 
though. I’ll take a pounce, and see if I can erase it 
neatly.) 

My father regrets that we have no graded school at 
Quinnebasset. Keller has been at Exeter ever since 
last September. Judith says her aunt Esther thinks 
my father is crazy to send him, for he can’t afford it. 

(I suppose she knows ! It seems very lonesome, for 
Keller was always whistling. It is so muddy that 
people don’t go out much, and Pauline told Benjie she 
would give him ten cents a day if he would swing the 
gate every hour, to make believe somebody was com- 
ing. There, I hear Judith down stairs.) 

“Come right up here, Judith, into my ‘little white 
chamber of bliss.’ O, how pretty you are, dear ! — I 
mean when the color flies into your face. Do you think 
you’ll ever be married ? ” 

“ Why, Marian Prescott, what a funny question ! 
How can I tell ? ” 

“ Yes, it is funny ; but you can’t guess what I was 
thinking, just this minute, about you and Keller ! O, 
ever and ever so many years by and by ! Perhaps you 
eould make a man of him. Don’t you think he’s hand- 
some ? Needn’t curl your lip so, Judith. I don’t mean 
any harm.” 

“Was I curling my lip ? Keller is very handsome, 
and I think a great deal of you , but I — I — It doesn’t 
hurt your feelings to have me speak out so plainly 


A GREAT SURPRISE. 


47 


does it ? ” said Judith, in all seriousness ; “ but I — I — 
don’t think I shall ever marry.” 

“ O, it’s just as well,” returned Marian, with some 
coldness, “just as well ; you needn’t apologize.” 

And, having made her friend an offer of marriage by 
proxy, and been flatly rejected, Miss Prescott began to 
toss over the ribbons in her collar-box with unnecessary 
vigor. 

It was as if two young nestlings in a tree had had a 
slight disagreement regarding a worm a mile out of 
reach. Neither of the young misses thought of smiling 
at the simplicity of Judith in “refusing before she was 
asked.” 

But it was rather odd that, for the first time in their 
lives, they should happen to be disposing of Keller on 
this particular evening, while at the same moment there 
was a great excitement about him down stairs. 

Dr. Prescott had come in with the mail, and handed 
his wife a letter from Keller, postmarked Exeter. Miss 
O’Neil was present, but happily did not observe that 
Mrs. Prescott, as she opened the letter, turned deathly 
pale, and sank back in her chair with a smothered groan. 

“ Well, what does the boy say?” asked the doctor, 
paring a Baldwin, and throwing the skin into the fire. 

Mrs. Prescott commanded her voice to reply, — 

“ I infer that he is well ; he says very little.” 

“ I hope he’ll see the error of his ways, and turn while 
yet the lamp holds out to burn ! ” exclaimed Miss 
O’Neil, adding, piously, “Do good in thy good pleasure 
unto Zion ; build thou the walls of Jerusalem.” 

Miss O’Neil was fond of quoting Scripture, especially 
in case of people she did not like. Whether it suited 


48 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


the occasion or not made no difference ; it always had 
a “ solemnizing effect.” 

In a little while Mrs. Prescott rose, touched her hus- 
band’s sleeve with her finger, then passed out of the 
room ; and he presently followed. 

An indefinite dreadful something had passed over 
the doctor before he returned. Pauline trembled, 
though without knowing why, when he filled Miss 
O’Neil’s “contribution-bag” with apples, and very po- 
litely requested her to go home, as Mrs. Prescott was 
taken suddenly ill, and their must be perfect * quiet 
throughout the house. 

Half an hour after, Marian and Judith were electri- 
fied by Pauline’s rushing wildly into the chamber, 
whispering, with chattering teeth, “ Girls, Keller is 
married ! ” 


THE VALLE T OF WORMWOOD. 


49 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE VALLEY OF WORMWOOD. 



CARRIED ! ” cried Marian, seizing her sister’s 
arm, and crushing it convulsively. “Not 
our Keller! ” 

“Not our Keller!” echoed Judith, dreamily. 
“ What Keller ? Who’s married ? ” 

. Pauline answered by throwing some dainty wedding- 
cards on the floor, and bursting into tears. 

“I can’t understand you, the room whirls so,’' 
moaned Marian. “ Was it in the school-house? Who 
did it ? Little boys like Keller — ’tisn’t possible ! ” 
Judith took up the cards, tied together with white 
taste. 

“Brownie Snow,” read she. 

“Yes, I know. Brownie, Brownie, Brownie, has 
been every other word in his letters all the term. Still 
we never thought — O, Judith ! ” 

With ready sympathy Judith threw both her arms 
around her friend, and said, soothingly, — 

“Never mind it, dear. I read once of a boy who 
was married at sixteen, and grew up a respectable 
man. Think how much worse it might have been. 
Suppose, now, Keller had burnt up his Prex’s wig, and 
been expelled.” 

4 


50 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“Yes, yes, that would have been worse. But I tell 
you, I won’t bear it ! ” cried Marian, wildly. “ Think 
of a little girl coming here to go to school with me 
that I’ll have to introduce as, ‘My sister, Mrs. Pres- 
cott’! Short dresses! Outrageous! Let me go, 
Judith.” 

Pauline laughed hysterically. 

How little these girls knew of what they were talk- 
ing about! How faintly they could comprehend the 
lifelong sorrow which had fallen upon two devoted 
parents ! 

“ Marian, where are you going ? Ho, not now. You 
must not see mother to-night. She is dreadfully pros- 
trated ; I had to put her to bed.” 

- “ There, Pauline, how could you, when I might have 
been a comfort to mother! O, dear, it all comes of 
dime novels ! ” 

“ Don’t scream so, Marian. What do you mean by 
dime novels ? ” 

“ He had his shelf piled with them years and years 
ago. ‘I tell you what it is, they’re neat ,’ said he. 
‘Hunters, and robbers, and runaway brides.’ He 
knew my father would never allow such things in the 
house. I told him if I saw another, I’d burn it up. 
He didn’t take it kindly — not as he would from you, 
Pauline. I spoke very gently; but I never saw an- 
other dime novel. But he must have had them. O, 
dear, if I’d told — ” 

“ Marian, hear me a moment, and stop screaming. 
Tou are not to mention Keller’s name before mother. 
It was only on that condition that father allowed me 
to tell you.” 


THE VALLEY OF WORMWOOD. 


51 


“ Did my father think I couldn’t be trusted ? Why, 
Pauline, when I’m so tender of mother!” 

“ And of course this affair is not to be known in the 
village at present. We are sure of you, Judith; and 
as for Marian, her pride will keep her silent. Father 
is going to Exeter to-morrow to bring them — to bring 
him home. And I’ve sent for aunt Filura ; for when 
mother has these shivering attacks, I feel safer with 
her in the house. There, good night, girls,” said Pau- 
line, suddenly breaking down. “My poor, rash boy, 
if you had only died ! ” 

The house was very still next day. Dr. Prescott, 
had gone to Exeter. Thankful, usually known as 
Widow Works, was ironing in list slippers; Pauline 
rolling crackers for gruel, with the pantry door shut; 
and Marian, in her mother’s room, holding the dear 
invalid’s hand, and reading softly some of the most 
soothing parts of the Gospel of St. John. The little girl 
felt safer so. Her tongue, being harnessed and kept in 
check, could not leap over barriers, and go trampling 
on forbidden ground. 

Cousin Filura Wix had come, and was seated before 
the fire in the sitting-room, pegging .a mitten with a 
whalebone hook. The front breadth of her dress was fold- 
ed back over her knees, disclosing a quilted black skirt, 
and the toes of a pair of gray kerseymere shoes. No 
matter what the time or place, never since she could dis- 
tinguish right from wrong had Miss Wix been guilty of 
the wilful extravagance of fading her gown by an open 
blaze. Upon the fire-frame, at a safe distance from the 
hot centre, stood her gay striped socks, drying their 
hat soles ; for with a strange inconsistency Miss Wix 


52 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


clothed her feet in all the gorgeousness of Solomon’s 
lilies, while her head went mourning in a black cap. 

“O, my! Aren’t they bouncers ?” said Benjie, fin- 
gering admiringly the cat’s-fur border of the socks. 

“Yes, dear,” said Miss Wix, looking up with a placid 
smile, “ the Lord has given me large feet, and I don’t 
mean to pinch ’em. Socks are most an excellent thing 
in a petticoat snow; but I’m jealous I’ve got some cold, 
after all, for my head feels tight.” 

Miss Wix took out her handkerchief. It was one of 
her peculiarities that she always blew her nose as if it 
belonged to an enemy. It was not alone the vehe- 
mence of the action ; there was besides a strange awk- 
wardness about it, as though it were a first experiment. 
Benjie watched her in interested silence. 

“ Aunt Filura,” said Marian, appearing at the door, 
“ I’ve read mother fast asleep.” 

“ Then, Benjamin, wouldn’t it be advisable for you 
to go out doors and play?” 

“No; I’m afraid I’ll ’sturb mamma, stayin’ round 
here ; guess I’ll go see lien Page,” said Benjie, with 
a ro ish side-glance at Miss Wix, who peered back at 
him in perplexity. 

“ It w'ouldn’t do for me to take such a responsibility,” 
said she, after some reflection. “You must not go vis- 
iting without the full consent of your sister Paulina.” 
(Paulina with a long 4 i.’) 

Benjie skipped away, smiling half sarcastically, as 
such young creatures will, when they find themselves 
a puzzle or an embarrassment to their betters. Miss 
Wix had very little “faculty with children.” Benjie 
had the impression that her caresses were made up of 


THE VALLEY OF WORMWOOD. 53 

elbows and Roman nose ; and, though he respected 
her intensely, he was by no means fond of her. Mar- 
ian, as she grew older, was learning to value the good 
woman at something like her true worth. That “ my 
father” called her “one of Nature’s noblewomen” had 
great weight with her. 

“ Aunt Filura,” said she, — Miss Wix was Dr. Pres- 
cott’s cousin and stanch friend, and usually called 
aunt by the children, — “why do you suppose this 
dreadful trial was sent upon us? You know, if any- 
body does, and I wish you’d tell.” 

Miss Wix looked up from her pegging with a peace- 
ful smile. 

“You’ve asked me a pretty snug question, Mary 
Ann.— Don’t sprawl down on the rug so.— It isn’t for 
us to map out the Lord’s designs ; but there’s good to 
come out of them, you may depend on that.” 

“Yes, so I’ve heard ever since I was born. But 
when I see poor mamma so white and weak, and my 
father with his lips set together, — O, auntie, what 
right had Keller, a silly boy, to behave so ? And we 
supposing he was learning his lessons ! To think God 
should allow — ” 

“Hush, Mary Ann; stop right there. You may ex- 
press your mind about Keller; I suppose that’s nat- 
ural ; and I won’t deny but what he’s played the fool ; 
but don’t you go to mixing it up with insinuations 
against your heavenly Father. If Keller had asked to 
be led in the right way, do you expect he’d have got 
into this scrape ? ” 

“No; O, no! But I was wondering,” said Marian, 


54 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


timidly, “ why God should let mother suffer sa 
Couldn’t he have prevented Keller’s marrying?” 

“ Certainly, child. He could have made Keller a 
machine, and then turned him with a crank. But he 
chose to make him a human being, knowing right from 
wrong. Have you anything to say against that ? Do 
you wish we were puppets, Mary Ann ? ” 

“No, auntie; but — ” 

“Nor I don’t, either. I’m thankful for the gift of 
free will, though it is a fearful privilege, and I make a 
curious bungle of it every day I live. For you see,” 
added Miss Wix, her face glowing with an inner light, 
“ there’s this comfort : Let us bungle as we will, or our 
friends either, there is the Lord right behind it, turning 
it to some good use. Trust him, Mary Ann. He’ll 
bring a blessing out of this.” 

“ O, auntie, I don’t seem to feel acquainted with Him, 
as you do,” said Marian, wistfully. 

“ Then it’s high time you did,” said Miss Wix, at- 
tempting to stroke Marian’s bright hair, but thinking 
better of it, and picking up a stitch with her pegging- 
hook. “ Put your arms right round his neck, child, and 
call him Father — that’s all lie asks of you.” 

Marian looked up at the serene old face reverently. 
How lovely it was, transfigured by such a beauty of 
expression ! 

“ I want to ask you,” said Marian, after a pause, 
“what you suppose my father intends to do with 
Keller.” 

“ Fetch him home, and set him at work on that 
heater piece he bought last fall.” 

“ But the — the girl ? ” 


THE VALLEY OF WORMWOOD. 


55 


“Well, it’s likely her mother, if she’s got one, will 
take care of her for the present.” 

“ Then you don’t think my father’ll bring her to this 
house ? Pauline didn’t know. O, what a relief! ” 

“Thankful,” whispered Marian, stealing into the 
kitchen, “ don’t look so glum. Cousin Wix thinks my 
father won’t bring her home.” 

“I never took your father for a fool,” responded 
Widow Works, scraping a kettle with subdued wrath.. 
“He’d ought to put ’em both in the lunatic asylum, 
and I hope he’ll be stren-oo-ous enough to do it.” 

The words were sharp, but their edge was rather 
dulled by a falling tear. 

“Keller is as good-hearted a boy as ever lived,” 
went on the drunkard’s widow, in the sweet, even 
tones which never failed her in her deepest anger, 
“ and I feel very homely towards the folks that have 
made a fool of him.” 

“I don’t know what you mean, Thankful,” said 
Pauline, who stood by the table, bathing her swollen 
eyes in cold tea. 

“Well, in plain words, I mean the girl’s mother. 
Not that I ever set eyes on the woman; but I’ve 
heard of just such a case, and you see ’f I ain’t right 
about it. We’d ought to be resigned to what the 
Lord sends upon us,” continued Widow Works, some- 
what bitterly ; “ but that don’t prevent us from hating 
the instrument.” 

“I wish Thankful wouldn’t talk religion,” thought 
Marian. “It isn’t the real thing, I know by the 
snapping of her eyes. A woman that hated her 
husband too, and can’t forgive him now he’s dead.” 


56 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER VII. 

BROWNIE SNOW. 

Miss Tottenham. 

t March 7. 

T was very strange. Keller has startled us many 
times before, but never like this. Father went 
to Exeter to bring him home. O, how I hated 
the instrument, as Thankful says, whoever it was. 

In the first place I wanted to make a fire in my 
room, and stay there, and not see Keller. But Pau- 
line said, “No; what good would that do? Sinners get 
punished in other w r ays ; it’s not for us to try to pun- 
ish them.” She put on her crimson dress, which Rob- 
ert Willard says makes her look like a winter rose. 
How she loves that boy ! I mean Keller. Partly be- 
cause he is not expected to take care of his room. If 
he was expected to, wouldn’t there be short-comings ? 

I came up here and locked my door. I felt out- 
raged. Why should that naughty boy trample on us 
so, and ruin my father, who had hard work to get 
money to send him to school ? I didn’t feel any more 
affection for him than I did for that stove. I was all 
out of sorts to think things had gone so hap-hazard, 
till I remembered what blessed aunt Wix said about 
God’s being behind it ; and then I did try as hard as 



JOHNANQRGN-SQN. 


THE DOCTOR AND MISS O’NEIL. Page 57 


% 































BROWNIE SNOW. 


57 


I could to “ put my arms around his neck and call him 
Father” Somehow, after that, I began to love Keller 
again, and make excuses for him. “Feather-brained 
he came into the world,” thought I, “and feather- 
brained he’ll go out of it.” I do pity him, for all Pau- 
line thinks I’m just such another! If he must always 
be troubling our parents, and tearing open their hearts, 
let me be the one to pour in the oil and wine. Per- 
haps I was born for that very purpose. 

At any rate, I concluded to put on my blue merino, 
as wearing my worst clothes wouldn’t stop the mar- 
riage now ; and I went down and carried mother her 
toast with a smile. She kissed me, and called me “ a 
comfort.” I found afterwards she had been afraid I 
should prove a trial. They all seem to watch me, as 
if I were the weather. 

Benjie was rather noisy, and I took him to the bay> 
window, and let him look out at the far-off blue moun- 
tains fading into the sky ; when, before we thought of 
such a thing, the stage drove up, and out stepped my 
father in a great hurry. No Keller. 

“Well, girls, how is your mother?” said he. He 
would ask that if the house was afire. I had my arms 
round him, and was just going to find out where Kel- 
ler was, when there stood Miss O’Neil, bubbling all 
over with curiosity. It seemed as if her eyes would 
drop off her face — they’re only stuck on the outside. 

“Where’s the bride, Dr. Linscott? I never knew 
’twas a mixed school before. Foolish Galathian , he 
wouldn’t be thought anything of at Machias.” 

Pauline turned to me with a frown. As if I had 
told ! I, who am as deep as a well ! 


58 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“ As near as I can make out,” said the tiresome old 
thing, “I was the only one he sent a wedding card to. 
So I thought I’d be the first to call on the bride.” 

There! Pauline knew then who had told! It was 
Keller himself. The news was going all over the vil- 
lage like wildfire. While Miss O’Neil stood swinging 
her door-key on her finger, in walked mother, trem- 
bling like a white lily in a breeze ; and my father ran 
and caught her right up in his arms, and laid her on 
the sofa. 

“ Let us have quiet here,” said he, sternly. “ Every 
soul of you, go- into the dining-room, and wait there for 
me.” 

We went, Miss Soapsuds too, with her falsest black 
front and best bonnet. How I wanted to cut her in 
pieces with my tongue ! If I were she, I’d be Paul 
Pry, and done with it. Cousin Filura was in the 
kitchen, pegging a mitten : she'd never think of intrud- 
ing at such a time. 

“Now,” said my father, when he came into the din- 
ing-room, all smiles, — how could he smile? — “give me 
a cup of tea, and I’ll tell you a story.” 

Then he said he went to Keller’s boardinsr-house, 
but the landlady didn’t know where Keller was ; he 
had left the week before. So my father went to the 
school-buildings, and after a while Keller came to the 
door, looking rather scared. 

“Young man,” said my father, “I’ve come to look 
into your conduct. We received an extraordinary doc- 
ument from you. Where’s your wife, you wretched 
boy?” 

Keller turned very pale, but at last said, if my father 


BROWNIE SNOW. 


59 


would go to such a street and such a number, he’d 
show her to him. 

When they got to the right place, and went in, 
they saw Charlie Snow sitting with his leg on a 
cushion. Charlie is one of our Quinnebasset boys, 
lamed for life by a base-ball. 

“ Allow me to introduce my wife, sir,” said Keller, 
trying to laugh. 

Till then he had thought this was a great joke. 
They had borrowed a little printing press, and struck 
off the wedding cards, just for fun. 

“ F un ! ” said my father ; “ the ridiculous young 
noddies ! ” 

But they were so frightened and ashamed, when 
they heard what mischief it had made ! 

Keller has had the care of poor Charlie ever since 
they went to Exeter, though we didn’t know it, and 
called him “little wife.” Charlie’s middle name is 
Brown ; and Brownie, as it is now, couldn’t afford to 
pay his board ; so Keller thought they’d try and see if 
they could get along cheaper to hire a room and cook 
their own food. Keller had it all to do, of course, and 
it was quite a sacrifice. My father said it was the 
most beautiful thing the boy ever attempted, and 
quite touching. The reason of his not writing us 
about it was, that he was afraid mother would object 
to hfe trying to cook, and think he wasn’t comfortable. 

So thoughtful of his mother, the cruel creature! 
Well, if that isn’t just like a boy! Pat you with one 
hand, and pinch you with the other ! 

My father said he tried his best to scold ; but those 


60 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


boys were so broken down, and Charlie cried so hard, 
he had to give it up. 

O, isn’t this a happy family? It seems as if the 
world were all rainbows, and trouble had poured itself 
into a hole in the ground. Mother is sitting up, hem- 
ming my new calico, just like anybody. Mr. Loring is 
in the parlor, looking as pleased as the rest of us ; but 
then, as Pauline said once, “Little girls mustn’t sur- 
mise.” 

Keller isn’t coming home to work on the “heater 
piece,” and I think my father has more hope of him. 

God is very good. He would never have allowed 
Keller to behave so. I thought it didn’t seem pos- 
sible ! 


A DREAM THAT WAS ALL A DJR.EAM. 61 


CHAPTER VIII. 



A DREAM THAT WAS ALL A DREAM. 

j4|»ISS O’NEIL went directly from Dr. Prescott’s 
?lr to the Reading Circle, of which she was a 
self-invited member. They were all talking 
about Keller. 

“See what comes of bringing up children by the 
square rule,” said Delia Liscom, who had been brought 
up in a country tavern, by no rule at all. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Page, the hostess, mother of a 
sharp-featured youth, dubbed by the school-boys 
“ Picked Evil,” “ Dr. Prescott is full of theories ; but 
here is his son behaving even worse than mine.” 

Tnen all the young ladies and gentlemen began, with 
one accord, to throw out recollections of Keller’s past 
misdeeds, till the poor boy was buried deep under a 
mound of obloquy. Miss O’Neil, coming in as the last 
shovelful was going on, was rather sorry to have to dig 
him out. She thought disgrace a good discipline for 
anybody — the innocent as well as the guilty ; and Kel- 
ler had never been a favorite of hers since his bold sur- 
mise that she “ never had an offer in her life.” 

Still she was very glad of another opportunity to 
make a sensation. Y esterday she had startled the people 
with the story, that “ Keller Linscott had married him 


62 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


a dancing wife, like the daughters of Benjamin” Now 
she cried, shaking her new' cap-strings, the color of win- 
ter butter, “Keller Linscott is going straight to the 
gallows, and ought to be hung in jeopardy. He isn’t 
married, and did it to deceive me, the foolish Gala- 
thian, without a squearn of conscience ! But I’ll tell 
you what he has done ; he has set up housekeeping, 
and is trying to ruin his father ! ” 

When the truth was fairly understood, there was a 
great deal of laughing; and, in spite of Miss O’Neil’s 
frown, the verdict seemed to be that the doctor’s son 
was not such a very bad boy, after all. There were no 
more misdeeds related of him, though Mr. Loring’s en- 
trance would have prevented that at any rate, he being 
regarded as a particular friend of Keller’s family. 

This Reading Circle was a time-hoiiored institution 
of Quinnebasset. Marian and Judith, having some lit- 
erary aspirations, thought they ought to be members ; 
but no one ever invited them to join. 

“Troubled with youngness,” said Robert, the big 
brother of twenty, looking down on little Judith w ith 
fatherly tenderness. “Never mind, dear; you’ll out- 
grow it.” 

But Judith did mind. When the Circle met at Dr. 
Prescott’s, she and Marian staid in the room, listening 
to the reading of Hyperion, and the paper called the 
Salmagundi, with the liveliest interest. What harm 
could they do, sitting there with their hands crossed ? 
Why were they left out, when they had such a taste 
for writing, and Marian’s Essay on Cain had been read 
in the Lyceum ? 

There was Delia Liscom, who never wrote at all. 


A DREAM THAT WAS ALL A DREAM. 63 


Was it fair that she should go there, and do nothing but 
smile, and ask Mr. Loring to hold yarn for her? 

“ She is twenty-five, and has outgrown her young- 
ness,” said Marian, with biting sarcasm. “ When we 
are twenty-five, Judith, we can go into any society, 
whether we’re ornaments or not.” 

The very next day Marian was ashamed of this 
speech, for she saw reason to think Miss Delia a supe- 
rior being. Thankful W orks sent her to Mrs. Liscom’s 
for some sage, and Delia, following her to the door, 
said, graciously, — 

“How is your dear mother? I hope that funny joke 
of Keller’s didn’t make her worse. Do you and Pau- 
line never leave her alone? Is that why you don’t 
join our circle, Marian ? Do come Thursday night ; it 
meets here. And please, dear, write for the Salma- 
gundi. They say your poetry is beautiful.” 

“ No, indeed, Miss Liscom,” said the blushing Mar- 
ian, looking up’ at the sign-post, a sort of swinging grave- 
stone, in honor of Delia’s grandfather; “it is Judith 
who makes rhymes.” 

“Ah, you say that because you’re so modest! Well, 
you and Judith put your bright heads together, and 
bring me a poem, there’s a pair of darlings.” 

Hadn’t the girls reason to consider Miss Delia a per- 
son of discernment ? W ouldn’t they write for her the 
very choicest thoughts of their brains ? 

Judith gave it as her opinion that she had charming 
manners, and people were wrong who thought she 
asked Mr. Loring to hold yarn for her any oftener than 
was absolutely necessary. 


64 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHT'ER . 


“ It’s not worth while her being very polite to Mr. 
Loring,” said Marian, with a shrewd smile. 

Judith looked up inquiringly. 

“Well, there, Judith, your eyes are more brilliant 
than mine ; but what good do they do ? ” 

“ Why, you don’t mean Pauline ? ” 

“No, I don’t mean anything. My elder sister says 
little girls ‘mustn’t surmise.’ But I dreamed last 
night that those wedding cards were printed over 
again, with her name and Mr. Loring’s. And it was 
so droll, Judith ! I saw her go away in a white satin 
dress, with red stockings, but never shed a tear ! 
‘Well,’ thought I, ‘Now I can let my room and my 
clothes go to destruction, and no Pauline to molest or 
make me afraid.’ ” 

“Why wouldn’t that make a good poem?” said 
Judith, thoughtfully. 

“ While sweetly sleeping yesternight, 

I saw my sister dressed in white.” ' 

“Capital! Only bring in satin and roses. Let 
me get my slate. What, have you thought of more so 
soon?” 

“ A satin dress of costly kind, 

With rosy wreath and pearl entwined.” 

“Judith, you are a genius. How Pauline will 
laugh when she hears herself described! What of 
this ? — 

“ So beautifully fair she seemed, 

I thought it must be then I dreamed ! ” 

Is that too sarcastic, J udith ? Pauline is so dark she’d 
look shockingly in white satin.” 


A DREAM THAT WAS ALL A DREAM. 66 

“ O, well, Marian, this is all a joke. Your rhyme 
does pretty well ; but can’t you help counting on your 
fingers ? Give me the pencil, please. 

“ She stood not alone with blushing mien, 

For by her side a youth was seen. ” 

“ But is Mr. Loring a youth ? ” queried Marian. 
“ He’s as much as twenty-five.” 

“ Poetical license, child. ‘Young man’ would spoil 
the metre.” 

“ Quick ! I’ve thought of something ! ” cried Marian, 
seizing the pencil. 

“ His well-marked face had a piercing look, 

And O, a nose with an eagle hook.” 

“ Why, Marian, everybody will know him in a min- 
ute. That mark on his face.” 

“ Well, all the better. Where would be the sport if 
’twas only a fancy sketch. What’s your next line, 
Judith?” 

“ He gazed with pride on his lady fair — ” 

“How wait, Jude; I’ll draw another portrait. 

“ Whose forehead low and dark- brown hair — ” 

“ Why, Marian ! ” 

Taking the slate from her friend, Judith added, -cr 

“ Were garlanded with leaves of green, 

And breathed of rose and aubepine.” 

“ Why, Judith, you dressed the bride once. Why do 
/ou do it again ? W hat in the world is aubepine ? ” 

“ French for hawthorn. I happened to see it in th^ 
dictionary. Don’t know as there’s any smell to it, 
though. 


5 


66 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“ The words were said which bind for aye, 

The lawyer bore his bride away.” 

“ There, Judith, you’ve married them; now it’s my 
turn. How we’ll make everybody laugh ! 

“ Ah, such a change within our house, 

Down to our cat, that loves a mouse ! 

Yes, pussy felt the alteration 
To be a great amelioration. 

No one to box her ears, or tread 
Upon her tail; no, none to dread. 

And cobwebs lingered like a brother, 

Unspied by the failing eyes of mother.” 

“ Why, Marian ! ” 

“Don’t interrupt. No one will take this in earnest. 

“ And O, the cake-board in disgrace, 

With dried-up dough upon her face.” 

“ There, Marian Prescott, you really must stop ! 1 

cannot consent to such vulgarity. You might express 
it thus : — 

“ And Neatness sighed, and pined away.” 

“ V ery well,” said the incorrigible Marian, adding, — 

“ But Peace smiled on us every day, 

And we were happy in our home ; 

So glad no lawyer’s wife would come 
To scour the paint with nimble fingers, 

Yet scold her sister when she lingers.” 

“ Scouring paint ! Give me that pencil, Marian. I 
don’t mind your being ironical, for I suppose Pauline 
can take a joke; but do let us have more refinement, 
and come out of the kitchen. 


t 


A DREAM THAT WAS ALL A DREAM. 67 

“ But ah ! I dreamed, too soon awaking, 

To find the vision slowly breaking, 

To know that bright as life then seemed, 

’Twas all illusion, for I dreamed.” 

“ There, J udith, you’ve wound that off gloriously. I 
confess your thoughts are loftier than mine. Now for 
a signature. I’ve been thinking of Kaween, out of 
Hiawatha, which means, ‘ No, indeed.’ You see the ob- 
ject, Judith? Everybody will be on the qui vive about 
this poem, and when we are asked if we know who 
wrote it, we can answer, ‘ No, indeed.’” 

“Yes, yes, I see. ‘No, indeed,’ wrote it.” 

“ I hope that wouldn’t be a lie,” said Marian, doubt- 
fully. “ What think ? ” 

V No, only a subterfuge, which an author has a per- 
fect right to use,” returned Judith, beginning to copy 
with Marian’s violet ink. 

Delia Liscom seized upon the poem with avidity. 
She had just enough envy in her narrow soul to feel 
some pleasure in holding up the popular and well-be- 
loved Pauline to ridicule. 

Marian and Judith went to the Circle the next 
Thursday night with fluttering hearts, Marian wearing 
a blue merino, which buttoned at the back, and hardly 
reached down to the tops of her boots. Would the 
time ever come when she might wear a long dress ? 
Should she ever put a wrought collar on her neck, and 
not hear Pauline say, “ A standing ruffle is more sim- 
ple for a child ” ? Marian did not call herself a child, 
and had no desire to be simple. 

While Delia Liscom was reading the “ Salmagundi.” 
she and Judith sat in the corner, looking intently at 


68 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


the striped yarn carpet, which had the effect of rain- 
bows straightened into line. For some reason, their 
Dream had a very different sound when read before a 
room full of such quiet and astonished-looking people. 
Miss Liscom had a singsong tone, and sometimes mis- 
called the words, and had to go over them a second 
time. This detracted so much from the effect, that 
Marian was afraid the audience would not see how 
witty that poem really was. No one seemed particu- 
larly amused, though at the close there was a general 
rustle, and a little laughing, in which Mr. Loring faintly 
joined. 

Marian timidly looked at the wall-paper, with its 
pictures of a lady in a high-topped comb smelling a dry 
rose, and one of our remote forefathers dancing a reel ; 
thence at the antique chairs and brass-nailed sofa, — 
till she came to Pauline, sitting not far from Mr. Lor- 
ing, and looking most stiff and uncomfortable. She 
wore a smile, it is true, but a very unnatural one, which 
seemed to be “frozen on.” 

“She doesn’t know how to take a joke,” thought 
Marian. “ I’m really afraid her feelings are wounded.” 

And then, with sudden force, came one of Marian’s 
afterthoughts. Had she done well to join Pauline’s 
name with Mr. Loring’s in such a public manner? 
What right had she to supjjose they were engaged? 
Or, even if they were, was it a delicate and fitting 
thing for a little sister to parade the fact before the 
world ? 

More than this, the playful allusions to Pauline’s 
scolding, — would everybody know how to understand 
it ? What if somebody, given, like the poetess herself, 


A DREAM THAT WAS ALL A DREAM. 69 


to u surmising,” should conclude that Pauline was a 
vixen ? What if Mr. Loring should conclude so too ? 
0, dear ! if any trouble should arise between him and 
Pauline on account of that miserable Dream ! 

Pauline gave Miss O’Neil her arm that night, and 
politely escorted her to her own door. Mr. Loring 
went home alone. What did that mean ? 

“ I always knew Delia Liscom was a coarse-minded 
girl,” said Robert to the two friends, as he walked be- 
tween them ; “ but I must say, I did not think her ca- 
pable of reading such doggerel as that in her own 
house. Personal articles are not allowable in the Sal- 
magundi. Have you any idea who wrote it ? ” 

“No, indeed,” said Judith, faintly. 


70 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


CHAPTER IX. 


AFTERTHOUGHTS. 


Miss Tottenham 


March 20. 

JJj^tVLESS your heart, Miss Tottenham : you’re get- 
ting to be a solid comfort. It is so pleasant 
to have some discreet person to speak one’s 


mind to ! 

I see now I was over-persuaded by Delia Liscom, 
or I never should have written that poem. She need 
not have read it aloud ! How could she — in her own 
house too ? When I am as old as she, I hope I shall 
have more discretion. “ But then,” as Robert remarked, 
“ Miss Liscom is certainly a coarse-minded woman.” 

That night I thought I would go directly to Pau- 
line, and tell her the whole story. She had got home 
first, and was rolling her hair on leads. 

“ O, Pauline,” said I ; but when I saw her face, I 
stopped. She is very seldom angry — never, I believe, 
except with me ; but now her eyes were coal-of-fire-y. 

“So you and Judith have been putting your heads 
together to dream out doggerel,” said she. O, I tell 
you, she has temper enough ! 

“You take a great deal for granted, Pauline; what 
makes you think it was Judith and I?” 


AFTER THO UGHTS. 


71 


“ Because nobody else would have been so silly.” 

There, wasn’t that cutting? Do you wonder the 
confession died on my tongue ? 

“ Marian Prescott, you had no right to hold me up 
to ridicule. What has your sister ever said or done to 
you that justifies you in such heartless conduct ? ” 

You see how seriously she took it, Miss Tottenham, 
standing there facing me like a judge. I felt like a 
criminal, and a very angry one too. I went to the 
mantel, and began to strike matches ; but three went 
but before I could light my lamp. Should I deny 
or confess ? Denial would be a lie, unless I translated 
or ?iom de plume “Kaween,” and said, “No, indeed;” 
and she had not asked a direct question yet. 

“ I must say, Marian, a girl of fourteen might have 
a little sense. You are always doing the most un- 
heard-of things ; just after that nonsense of Keller’s 
too ! Why, child, we shall be the most notorious 
family in town ! ” 

“O, yes; but you don’t blame Keller; you only 
blame me, now and forever. And you don’t know yet 
that I wrote the poem.” 

“ But you did write it, of course ? ” 

“ No, indeed ! ” 

There, I had said it ; and it felt exactly like a lie ! 

Pauline started back. “ Why, Marian, you’re not in 
earnest! How queer you look! I can’t doubt your 
word; you are the last person who would stoop to 
deceive, but — ” 

Ah, she cut me then worse than she did before ! 

“ I never was more astonished in my life. Why, if 


72 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


you and Judith Willard didn’t write that jingle, who 
did ? Do you know? ” 

“ No, indeed , Pauline ! ” 

Then I took my lamp and rushed up stall's, leaving 
her in a perfect puzzle. The first thing I did was to 
wash my mouth with Windsor soap. “ But what harm 
have I done?” said I. “I’m no worse than Dickens; 
he called himself Boz; and who ever blamed him for 
that?” 

Still, I felt that dreadful consciousness which my 
father says is the true test of guilt. “ A lie acts on the 
soul,” he says, “ like poison on the body.” I believe it, 
for I felt corroded. I looked around for an antidote ; 
but all I could find was the same thing right over and 
over : “ Twas only a subterfuge. What’s fair for Dick- 
ens is fair for me.” 

And in that way I contrived to get to sleep. 

Well, it is all over now, and Pauline never so much 
as alludes to the Dream. She has fallen into one of 
her “sewing rages,” and scarcely speaks. How should 
I feel to have her know that the Academy girls, who 
are not members of the Reading Circle, have those 
lines by heart, and that Oscaforia Jones called out 
to me, yesterday, — 

“ So beautifully fair you seem, 

I think it must be now I dream ! ” 

Delia Liscom cannot have betrayed us ! What does 
she think of her word ? 

March 30. We need aunt Filura again. There is 
another cloud hanging over the house. This time it is 
Pauline. I don’t mean that she hangs over the house, 


AFTER THO UGHTS. 


73 


but something hangs over her. I never should have 
thought of it, if Thankful hadn’t said, in a mysterious 
tone, “ Ah, well, if your sister knew as much as I do of 
mankind, she wouldn’t take these things so to heart.” 

“ What things ? ” 

Thankful eyed me through those brass bows of 
hers, and saw, perhaps, that she was telling me some- 
thing new ; for she changed the subject at once, and 
went to talking about the “mysterious dispensations 
of marriage and death;” about Josiah’s being a 
“ drinking man,” and leaving her “ a widow so, with 
not much of anything to lay her hands to, for he willed 
away the property to his folks.” 

I’ve heard the story so often that I’m rather tired of 
it. But what she means about Pauline I can’t ima- 
gine, and I’m determined to find out. I would so like 
to talk with mother! but my father says she must not 
be agitated. Since Keller’s joke failed to destroy her, 
he hopes we’ll stop experimenting. 

I am in the sitting-room, studying my geology les- 
son, off and on, by the German-student lamp; and 
mother and Pauline, before the fire, are talking about 
it’s getting too late in the season for buckwheat cakes. 
Nothing very solemn in that; and I don’t see, for my 
part, but Pauline looks lively enough. As the light 
falls on her eyes, they are a pansy-purple mixed with 
cinnamon-brown. I could envy her her eyes ; but such 
splendors are not for me; I must do with my old 
gray. Isn’t it hard always to consent ourselves with 
inferior things, when we know what is so much better? 

Here comes my father, chilled through and through. 
“Benjamin, my son, put my boots behind the kitchen 


74 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


stove to dry, and bring me my slippers.” He looks 
rather withering; but I know that look is for Mrs. 
Page, not Benjie. Pauline wheels his big arm-chair 
before the fire, and mother hands him his dressing- 
gown. “ Poh, poh ! I can wait on myself,” says he ; 
but he smiles at mother as if she were an angel, and 
had brought him an ascension robe. 

“ How did you find Mrs. Page?” said I; for I knew 
he wanted a chance to scold. 

“Humph! you needn’t hurry up her epitaph, my 
daughter; if that’s what you’re doing! I judge her 
case isn’t critical. I only remarked some degree of in- 
flammation about the lachrymal glands.” 

Just then Benjie cried out, from the bay-window, 
“A man a drivin’ round to the porch door.” 

“ Another case of spleen, most likely ! ” growled my 
father. “ Bad roads and stormy weather develop the 
symptoms.” 

But it happened this time that a Mr. Works, of 
Poonoosac, had broken his skull or his back-bone. So, 
though the wind howled like wolves, my father hurried 
into his wet boots, harnessed his horse, and was off 
before Thankful had time to ask if the patient wasn’t 
“ one of Josiah’s folks, that lived on the flat.” 

My father is all alive in a surgical case ; but as for 
neryousness — well, he doesn’t think anybody has a 
right to nerves but just mother. 

There, now I’ve been out in the kitchen talking to 
Thankful. “ Please tell me this minute,” said I, “ what 
you mean by ‘ these things ! ’ ” 

“O, I was only speaking in a general way of the 
fickleness of men,” said Thankful, putting on another 


AFTER THO UGHTS. 


75 


cape. She wears one all the time, and two when she’s 
preparing to cry. And then I had to hear it all over 
again — the history of her wrongs. My father calls it 
“Memoir of Josiah, with Epitaph and Appendix.” I 
suppose this is the Appendix : “ I never shall marry 
again ; no, never ! I hate the whole race of mankind ! ” 
I’m glad to know for a dead certainty that Thankful 
won’t leave us ; and I can generally worry through 
the Memoir for the sake of the Appendix. But not 
now. “ Thankful,” said I, “ please do let Josiah rest in 
his grave, and answer my question.” 

Finally, after charging me over and over “not to 
let this go from Aer,” she told me “ the story was, that 
the engagement was broken between Pauline and Mr. 
Boring, and Delia Liscom was somehow to blame.” 

“ There, if Quinnebasset isn’t just like a glass house 
to live in,” said I ; “ only the glass is smoked this time, 
and they don’t see straight. Pauline was never en- 
gaged, for she told me so herself. And as for Mr. 
Boring’s staying away from here, why shouldn’t he, 
when they’ve stopped German? You needn’t look so 
wise, Thankful Works! She wants the time to prac- 
tise ; and haven’t I heard you say how much pleasanter 
it makes your evenings out here in the kitchen, when 
you can hear her sing and play ? ” 

If there is anything I dislike in Thankful, it is her 
way of not answering you, but looking as if she held 
back a whole volume behind her spectacles. 

I wish she had not made me so uncomfortable. 
Can it be that I have done any harm ? — In dreaming 
aloud, for instance ? That foolish satire cannot have 
changed Mr. Boring’s opinion of my dear sister. No; 


76 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


for it is Pauline herself who seems to wish him not to 
come. I supposed she was tired of German. The 
first time I met him at the door, and told him she was 
out, and wouldn’t be home till nine o’clock, he 
looked surprised, and I dare say thought her rather 
impolite. He called three times, and she was always 
out ; and since that he does not come any more. I 
was very glad of it till now, for I thought Pauline was 
glad ; but if she isn’t, it is quite another thing. That 
poisoned feeling comes over me very strongly. Why 
didn’t I tell Pauline the simple, silly truth? Then 
she would not have made this miserable mistake. I 
see it all now, and might have foreseen it. She sus- 
pects Mr. LorThg himself of writing that poem. What 
ihall I do ? what shall I do ? 


THANKFUL'S THIRDS. 


77 


CHAPTER X. 
thankful’s thirds. 

t HE^ Dr. Prescott returned at a late hour 
from Poonoosac, he found Thankful waiting 
up for him, and keeping some ginger tea 
hot upon the stove. 

“You need something after such a hard ride, and 
Mrs. Prescott was stren-oo-ous about my sitting up,” 
said she, in a deprecating tone, for she stood a little in 
awe of the head of the family. 

The doctor thanked her heartily, but could not avoid 
one of his half-satirical smiles, as he met the widow’s 
sombre black eyes through the “green gloom” of a 
pair of round spectacles. She had just finished toeing 
off a stocking, and her hair was charged with knitting- 
needles. As usual, her clean calico dress had retired 
from this dirty world under various concealments. A 
blue checked apron covered the skirt; baggy brown 
“leggings ” the sleeves ; and the waist was well hidden 
under a merino cape, made of small black “scrids,” 
pieced “ askew,” and edged with rabbits’ fur. So gro- 
tesque was Widow Works’s general appearance, at 
home and abroad, that she was suspected by the vil- 
lagers of being a little “ flared.” When asked why 
she did not dress like other people, she had been 


78 


THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER . 


known to reply that she never intended to marry again, 
and “did not wish to hold out any inducements to 
gentlemen.” 

“ Doctor,” said she, rising and pouring a mugful of 
foaming tea, made by a private recipe of her own, and 
famous throughout the neighborhood, “which one of 
the Workses was it? And did he get much hurt ? ” 

“It was James Works,” replied the doctor, drinking 
the delicious beverage with a relish ; “ he fell from a 
wagon, and broke his collar-bone.” 

“ O, was that all ? ” 

“You don’t wish it had been worse, I hope? You 
think he treated you unfairly, I believe, at the time of 
your husband’s death ? ” 

“I know he did, doctor! You see, the heft of the 
property — ” 

“Yes, yes, I understand. But did you ever ask 
James Works to make it a matter of conscience? 
Did you talk to him plainly ? ” 

“Did I, sir? You shall see,” replied the widow, a 
bitter look darkening her eyes ; and going up stairs she 
quickly returned with a well-worn sheet of foolscap. 
“This is the copy of a letter I wrote James Works; 
and I leave you to judge whether I was mealy- 
mouthed, sir,” said she, giving the doctor the paper 
triumphantly, as one who should say, “ Here’s elo- 
quence ! ” 

The doctor read it aloud : — 

“James Works. Sir: Indignation concerning the 
will of Josiah Works still burns in the bosom of my- 
self, the Hights of Poonoosac, and the Lowes of Quin* 


\ 

\ 



THANKFUL’S LETTER. Page 78. 














1 

. 



4 

• 




• 











t 

• 







• • 

• 










i 









4F 









• 





. 











THANKFUL'S THIRDS. 


79 


nebasset. We all know you took advantage of his 
habits to get him to will away my thirds. Is there 
any punishment for such outrageous conduct, or must 
we wait till the day of judgment to have every man 
rewarded according to his deeds ? I expect you to 
give me back my thirds ; and the longer you delay, 
the smaller you look to yours, 

Thankful Works.” 

“ That’s strong,” laughed the doctor. “ But, as 
James was not moved by it, why didn’t you break the 
will?” 

“Break the will?” repeated Thankful, with a re- 
vengeful glance at the ginger tea. “My feelings 
wouldn’t allow that, doctor. I had too much respect 
for the dead.” 

“ Humph ! Better break a will than hold a grudge ! 
But let me say this to you, my good woman. If James 
Works has used you ill, — as I do not doubt he has, — 
it is safe to forgive him now.” 

“Goodness sakes alive, doctor! You don’t mean 
he’s going to die ? ” 

“ I cannot tell. He has met with serious internal 
injuries, poor fellow. Time will determine.” 

“ Dear, dear, dear ! ” cried the widow, with clasped 
hands and quivering knitting-needles. “ Don’t think 
I’m a heathen, doctor, if I did write that letter. If 
James is going to die, I forgive him out and out.” 

“ But if he should get well, what then ? ” laughed 
the doctor, in his short, dry way; and, bidding the 
weeping widow good night, he passed into the sitting- 
room, to see if the fire was properly raked. To his 


80 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


surprise, Marian stood leaning over the mantel, sobbing 
bitterly. 

“ Why, daughter, little daughter, what is it ? ” 

The very slight touch of sarcasm which Thankful 
had unconsciously felt in his voice was gone now, and 
in its place was such affectionate tenderness that Mar- 
ian threw herself right into his arms. 

“ O, papa, I’m so discouraged, so tired of trying to 
do right! What do you suppose I was born for?” 

“ Bless us, how the little heart quivers ! Born for ? 
Why, to be a noble, high-minded woman, when the 
time comes, and a blessing all the way along.” 

“ But I can’t ; O, I can’t, papa ! ” 

“ But you are, dear.” 

“ No, no, papa ; how can I be a blessing when I’ve — 
I -don’t know but I’ve broken somebody’s heart.” 

“ Somebody’s heart, child ? ” 

“Yes; it was not an engagement, it is true,” sobbed 
Marian ; “ not quite ; but it would have been, I really 
think, if I — Well, there, papa, it is such a very 
foolish thing to tell.” 

The doctor looked hard at the young creature, 
whose small, soft face was bowed with such a weight 
of woe upon his arm. 

“ What is my baby saying about engagements ? I 
can’t have heard you clearly ; I don’t understand.” 

“ I mean Mr. Loring ; and it was my way of doing 
unheard-of things that made a coolness, papa. ‘No 
discretion, and no delicacy,’ Pauline says ; and I could 
bear it better to hear her say so, if it wasn’t true.” 

“ There, there, don’t sob so hard, my child. Indis- 
creet you may be ; but papa will not own that his little 


THANKFUL'S THIRDS. 


81 


girl has no delicacy. Begin at the beginning, Marian, 
and tell me what has happened.” 

Thus encouraged, Marian related the whole story 
of the foolish poem, not omitting the “subterfuge,” 
though at that her father was a little startled, prevari- 
cation being by no means one of her besetting sins. 

“ And I really thought, papa, Pauline suspected Mr. 
Loring.” 

The doctor smiled quietly. 

“ So, after a long struggle, I went to her this even- 
ing, and told her the truth. And, what do you think ? 
She only laughed in my face. ‘ As if she could sus- 
pect a sensible man of scratching such doggerel ! ’ she 
said. And I know she never did ; it really was too 
silly, papa. But if that isn’t the trouble, what is it ? 
Why does she treat him so, then? ” 

“ There’s no accounting for young people’s freaks. 
I fancy she may be a little ashamed of being the butt 
of ridicule. That is probably the amount of it,” said 
the doctor, thoughtfully. 

“But Mr. Loring used to come here so free and 
easy, just like one of the family. Do you suppose 
that’s all over now?” 

“ I cannot say ? It’s not our affair.” 

“ But it is my affair. I did it ! ” cried Marian. “ I’d 
go through fire and water to undo it. I’ll run right 
over to Judge Davenport’s, and see Mr. Loring.” 

“There, that will answer. Don’t you perceive, 
Marian, it is your very impulsiveness which has made 
all the mischief? Wait, now, and let affairs take 
their course.” 

“ But isn’t there anything I can do ?” 

6 


82 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


“ Nothing, child. Stop doing.” 

“ But Pauline ? ” 

“ Pauline is her own mistress. If I understand the 
case, she has behaved quite as foolishly as our little 
poetaster herself.” 

Marian looked up in astonishment. 

“ Why, mother says Pauline has an exquisite sense 
of propriety, and you always call her your ‘proper 
child.’” 

“ There is such a thing as being too proper.” 

“Ah, that doesn’t mean me! I hope I didn’t do 
wrong in telling you, papa. Why is it I always come 
to you with everything, when Pauline and Keller 
don’t dare?” 

A pained expression crossed the doctor’s firm mouth ; 
but Marian did not observe it. 

“ I fancy you’re a magnet, papa, and I am steel, and 
they are oxidized iron ; isn’t that it ? ” 

“We won’t sit up to discuss chemistry,” said the 
doctor, somewhat sharply. “Go to bed, child, and 
don’t brood over this nonsense. To change the sub- 
ject, though, I will tell you a word about Thankful ; 
but mind you keep it to yourself now.” 

Marian smiled as she smoothed the thin, fair hair 
from her father’s forehead. How much better he un- 
derstood her than Pauline did, who so seldom trusted 
her with a secret ! 

“I was called to-night to see James Works, her 
brother-in-law. I think he will die. I found him 
frightened and penitent. He inquired for Thankful, 
and owned he hadn’t treated her fairly. I told him 
there was still time to do works meet for repentance, 


THANKFUIJS THIRDS. 


83 


and urged him to make a will, restoring her thirds; 
and I am pretty sure he will do it.” 

“ How much do her thirds amount to ? ” 

“ Some three thousand dollars, more or less.” 

“ Why, father, if Thankful gets as much money as 
that, she won’t be obliged to do housework.” 

“No, perhaps not.” 

“O, dear! and she is such a capital cook. Just the 
best help we ever had, and no fault but talking so 
much about Josiah. I don’t see, father, how we can 
ever let her go.” 

“Selfish little tyrant!” said the doctor, pinching 
Marian’s upturned chin, one of the loveliest ever 
tickled by a dimple. “Would you have had me con- 
sider our own convenience, before I counselled James 
Works to do his duty?” 

“No, sir; O, no,” said Marian, blushing. “I didn’t 
mean that ! Only, you know, if mother and I should 
go to Cuba — ” 

“ Mother and I,” laughed the doctor. “ Go to bed, 
child.” 


84 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


CHAPTER XI. 

CUBA PREVAILS. 

t T was a late, cold spring. There was the usual 
panic, at Quinnebasset, lest the ice, when it 
went out, should take the bridge with it ; but it 
had not strength enough, and the bridge was left yet a 
little longer to shake under every wagon that passed 
over it. 

Nothing very important occurred in town. Mr. 
Willard continued to keep the principal store on the 
north side of the river, and aunt Esther to practise 
economy in his family. Judith, being “at the growing 
age,” and quite averse to general housework, slipped 
olf at every opportunity to revel in poetry or novels. 

Robert worked hard at copying deeds in the Regis- 
try. His father had never sent him away to school for 
a single term ; but the youth might have struck out for 
himself, and would have done so, only that Mr. Wil- 
lard, taking counsel of aunt Esther, declared he could 
not give his boys their time ; they must contribute to 
the family support till they were twenty-one. Robert 
continued, however, to glean knowledge under diffi- 
culties. Slow, diligent, and persevering, his mind, 
as Dr. Prescott said, admiringly, was constructed 
like a sheep’s jaws; it could pick up its living off a 
rock. 


CUBA PREVAILS. 


85 


Little Benjie would think it hardly correct to say noth- 
ing of importance was occurring in town. Miss O’Neil 
had put him into geography, and he had learned that 
Newfoundland is south-east of Florida. And so it 
was, on his small map, having been crowded out of 
its proper place. Considering this surprising informa- 
tion, his parents decided to take him out of school be- 
fore his ideas of locality should become hopelessly 
twisted. Benjie was ecstatic, and Miss O’Neil easily 
consoled for the loss of her pupil by the gift of a bar- 
rel of flour and an infuriated crimson head-dress, which 
Keller had selected, with his usual taste, at a milliner’s 
shop in Boston. To be sure, Miss O’Neil scorned the 
head-dress ; but it gave her something to scold about 
and pick to pieces, and so added not a little to her 
scanty fund of happiness. 

Keller came home the last of July, with fragile little 
Charlie Snow; but looked so mortified when asked “if 
this was a bridal tour,” that it was evident he was 
ashamed of the joke. “ A fellow can’t have any peace,” 
said he aside to Robert, “ they take you up so on 
every little thing. Look here, Bob ; on the square now,, 
what did O’Neil mean by rolling her eyes, on the 
church steps, and saying, ‘A horse is a vain thing for 
safety, O you foolish Galathian ’ ? ” 

“Why, you looked rather too jolly, I dare say, going 
by her window on horseback. Poor O’Neil can’t bear 
enjoyment in other people; that’s one of her amiable 
weaknesses, you know.” 

“Was that all? Good for her! You see, Bob, I 
was afraid she meant something else. There was an 
old dry-bones of a parson let out his old dry-bones of a 


86 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


horse to feed near the school buildings ; and, to refresh 
the poor beast, some of us fellows dabbed him all over 
with brown paint. He was sorrel to begin with, and 
when he came out speckled, the parson didn’t seem to 
recognize him. He hunted round and round all day, 
and the exercise was a fine thing for him ; but some- 
how he couldn’t find the horse. We fellows offered to 
assist; and, I tell you, we scoured that town well. 
When we’d used our legs up, we made use of turpen- 
tine, and that found the horse. ’Twas too late, though, 
for the parson to meet an engagement ; and there was 
a while we shook in our boots, for he turned out to be 
one of your big guns, and — ” 

“Going gunning, boys? What are you laughing 
at ? ” said Marian, coming into the room with her apron 
full of wild flowers. 

“Nothing. Bob laughs if you only point your finger 
at him,” said Keller, giving him a poke in the side. 
“ By the way, Marian,” — Keller was always saying 
“ by the way,” — “ what’s up with Mr. Loring, that he 
doesn’t come here now ? ” 

“He was here week before last,” returned Marian, 
avoiding Robert’s eye — for what he thought of the 
matter she did not know. “ He came two or three 
times to read to me when I had the roseola.” 

“ Measles, that is. All right,” said Keller, carelessly : 
“ only I thought he and Pauline were great friends last 
I heard of them.” 

“ See, Robert,” exclaimed Marian, with sudden enthu- 
siasm, “ how my ivy grows. Two years old, and it has 
crept twenty feet, shouldn’t you say? From the bay- 
window to the looking-glass.” 


CUBA PREVAILS. 


87 


“Just to see itself, hey? Vain thing!” said Keller, 
looking not at the “ vain thing,” but at his own reflection 
in the large mirror between the windows. “ What was I 
trying to say ? O, ‘ Picked Evil ’ told me some kind 
of a yam about Thankful’s having money fall to her. 
It isn’t true, of course?” 

“Yes, but it is. Her brother-in-law died, and left 
her those ‘ thirds ’ you’ve heard so much about. But 
she chooses to stay here all the same. She never will 
marry again, Keller; three thousand dollars don’t 
change her views of mankind,” said Marian, laughing 
lightly, as she gave the last touches to a vase of nod- 
ding harebells, bittersweet, and clematis, and flitted out 
of the room to shake her apron. 

“ I’m glad to hear of that windfall ; ’twill be nice to 
borrow of the old girl when a fellow’s hard up,” re- 
marked Keller, stretching his length across two chairs. 

Robert looked at him keenly. 

“ Y ou lazy, good-for-nothing boy ; if you’re hard up 
again, I’ll report you.” 

“You don’t scare me that way, Bob. Old Slyboots 
Loring reported me, but I’ll risk you. By the way, 
wasn’t it lucky Marian didn’t get hold of that story of 
the painted horse ? If it had been Pauline, I wouldn’t 
have cared.” 

“ Why, that’s queer,” said Robert, “ when Pauline is 
so fastidious, and Marian is running all over with fun ” 

“ That shows how much you know of my two sisters, 
sir. Pauline’s a real comfort to a fellow ; but Marian 
is too sharp-cornered to suit me.” 

“ W ell, there’s no accounting for the different effects 
the same temperaments have on different people,” said 


88 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


Robert, wonderingly. “Now, I’m just a little afraid of 
Pauline ; but I can say anything under the sun to 
Marian.” 

“ Can you ? Why, I’m sure she hasn’t any particu 
lar fancy for you,” said Keller, bluntly. 

“ I wasn’t talking about fancies,” returned Roberta 
slightly annoyed. 

“ No, but I was ; and I have a real one for you, Bob, 
I suppose you know. If anybody can do me the least 
good, it’s you.” 

“That ; if’ was well put in. How do you stand in 
your class, my boy ? ” 

“Well, ‘he that is low need fear no fall;’ so I man- 
age to keep as near the foot as I can,” rejdied Keller, 
examining the heel of his boot with some confusion. 
“You know I always hated to study.” 

“ Study ? Why, you never did it yet. Look at a 
lesson, and you have it.” 

“ I know that ; so, you see, I always put off looking 
at it till the last minute ; that’s what’s the matter,” 
said Keller, with a very complacent, good-natured 
laugh. 

“ Shame on you ! ” cried Robert, indignantly. 
“Pluming yourself on being quicker to learn than 
other boys ! Why don’t you know more, then ? ” 

“ Probably should, if I had to dig for it as you do, 
Bob.” 

“I believe you. It’s this ‘fatal facility’ that threat- 
ens to be the ruin of you,” said Robert, shaking his 
great, shaggy head, and looking down compassionately, 
from his five feet eleven, upon- the handsome young 
scatter-brains before him. 


CUBA PREVAILS. 


89 


‘“Fatal facility ! ’ I’ll make a note of that. Let’s see ; 
here’s mother’s motto in my pocket-book: ‘Think that 
to-day shall never dawn again.’ Who wants it to ? 1 
say. Better days coming — worth two of this. Marian 
has the same motto. She and I are very much alike* 
you know — what you call geniuses; no regulation 
to us.” 

Robert shook his head again, this time very decid- 
edly. That there was “ no regulation ” to Keller he 
admitted. A screw seemed to be loose somewhere, 
which he feared would never tighten. But as for 
Marian, he saw nothing amiss in her; she was merely 
impulsive, effervescent. All she needed was the “sweet 
benefit of time” to mature her into a superior wo- 
man. 

“Well, Keller, if you make excuses for all your short- 
comings by calling yourself a genius, I’ve nothing 
more to say. You’ve put me out of all patience. 
Good by.” 

Keller only laughed. Bob’s losing his patience was 
nothing. He always did lose it, more or less, after any 
serious talk with Keller ; but then he was just as mag- 
nanimous without patience as other people are with it ; 
just as ready to do you a kindness, overlook your 
faults, and keep all unpleasant particulars to himself. 

“ Splendid old Bob ! Pity he’s such a whale ! 
What a figure he’d make as a lawyer ! ‘ Fatal facility.’ 

Yes, I’ve known it ever since that hit on the interred- 
with-your-bones question. I own up to the ‘facility,’ 
but where does the ‘fatal’ come in, hey? By the way, 
I’m going out to stir up Thankful. She hates man- 
kind, but she always brightens up when she sees me 


90 THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

coming. Glad of her windfall. Glad for her sake, I 
mean. Don’t I know how it feels to be without mon- 
ey? Yes, and the governor so everlasting particular, 
down to half a red cent. Wonder if the old girl 
would like to lend a fellow something, on good se- 
curity ? ” 

Miss Tottenham. 

September 3. Fifteen to-day. A birth-night sup- 
per, as usual ; but how could I enjoy it, with the whole 
Island of Cuba pressing upon my heart? It has been 
up with mother, and down with Cuba, or vice versa , for 
two years. Now up comes Cuba, and prevails. I am 
not the one to go; the choice falls on Pauline. I am to 
be left at home with the dropping autumn leaves. 
Ileigh-ho ! 

Dear mamma seems no worse than usual. I must 
hope my father is needlessly alarmed. She walks 
about the house and grounds, and sits in the summer- 
house in the sun, looking wonderfully happy, as if she 
were resting in God’s arms. How beautiful that is ! 
Seems to me most Christians cling to him feebly, just 
with one finger; but mother lies close to his breast. 
She says she is quite sure she shall come back, in a 
few months, strong and well. She laughs and talks, 
and seems to like to have us all enjoy ourselves. She 
made my Italian creams with her own hands, and 
thought out the words for our charades. I had Rob- 
ert and Judith, Oscaforia and Pitkin Jones, and half a 
dozen others. I told Robert I should be delighted to 
see Mr. Loring, my darling old teacher, if we weren’t 
all too young. Robert said nothing, but went right 


CUBA PREVAILS. 


91 


off and invited him on his own responsibility. I think 
the man was pleased to come ; and, as for Pauline — 
well, I have a page to tell about that. 

All would have passed off finely if Miss O’Neil 
hadn’t appeared. She saw the lights, she said, and 
“heard the verbal music,” — that was Marie Smith, 
singing operatic, — and concluded to drop in, “ for she 
always thought everything of our family.” Talk about 
a man’s house being his castle ! I’d like to see the 
castle walls Miss O’Neil wouldn’t scale! Yet she is 
well bred too, in her way, only the politeness never 
struck in. I begged Mr. Loring to tell a story about 
something that happened to him in Germany; but 
Miss O’Neil filled all the pauses by scolding Benjie be- 
cause some other boys had jumped in the little speck 
of a grass-plot before her front door. She cuts that grass 
with a pair of scissors, and makes a bed for her cat. 
Poor little Benjie thought a great deal of sitting up 
for the first time through my birth-night party; but 
Miss O’Neil got him fairly exasperated at last, and he 
ran round the room hooting like a little scream-engine. 
I had to coax him out, and pacify him with jelly-cake. 
We tried “How do you like it?” But Miss O’Neil 
threw us into the greatest confusion. When the word 
was “ hair,” she “ liked it on humans and inhumans ; ” 
when it was a waiter, she “ liked it up a stove-pipe.” 
Mr. Loring told her nobody ever heard of a waiter up 
a stove-pipe. “Of course not; that was the funny 
part of it,” she said. But afterwards she helped us to 
the words in plain — Irish. Well, everybody knows 
what a fool she is ; so what do I care ? 

I had a set of Mrs. Browning from Robert, and a set 


92 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


of turquoise from Keller. Lovely as the sky ; but the 
boy can’t possibly afford it — I mean Keller. And 
then that dear Mr. Loring — 

Hark ! The clock strikes eleven. I am tempted not 
to mind if. I so long to sit up and tell the whole story, 
and let a ghost walk through it — the ghost I saw to- 
night. I might, for no one knows when I go to bed. 
But my father, when he insisted on our all having sep- 
arate chambers, wished us to make it a matter of con- 
science not to sit up late. So, good night, Miss 
Tottenham. 


MISS O'NEIL EXPRESSES HER MIND. 93 


CHAPTER XII. 

miss o’neil expresses her mind. 

Miss Tottenham. 

September 5. 

MIGHT just as well have finished the story on 
my birth-night for all the sleep I got. 

“ My soul kept up too much light 
Under my eyelids for the night.” 

And it is not to be wondered at when you consider the 
circumstances. In the first place, I don’t quite enjoy 
entertaining company with Pauline looking on. When 
she handed iced creams I followed with pickles, think- 
ing, to be sure, it was cake. Miss O’Neil says I 
“learned behavior at her school;” and alas! I begin 
to think I did. I’m at the disagreeable age, Miss Tot- 
tenham, and I feel it. It is not the fault of my dear 
mother, — this hit-or-miss-ness, — for she has spared no 
pains in trying to make me a true lady. Do you sup- 
pose there’s anything in the dispensary to stop my 
blushing? I wouldn’t mind doing it properly, like 
Pauline. A little rosy flush, that comes and goes, is 
nice and becoming; but blushing all over gives you 
the appearance of measles! I never saw it done ex- 
cept by me. It’s “ neck or nothing,” and arms too ; so ; 



94 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


from a child, I’ve always objected to wearing short 
sleeves. 

Well, I will try to tell the events of the evening, as 
they occurred. I begged for mother’s company, and 
she sat out most of the charades. We had them in 
the dining-room, and Silas Hackett officiated. He has 
some talent for acting, though it is chiefly in low com- 
edy, and some of the scenes were rather too boisterous 
for the good of the furniture. 

They were all impromptu affairs; but the drollest 
was “ Artemus Ward.” It shocked cousin Sarah 
Hinsdale and Pauline, though they were too polite 
to give expression to their feelings. The fourth syl- 
lable was a ward in a soldiers’ hospital, with men lying 
around in little cot-beds, groaning in the liveliest man- 
ner. You could not help laughing, for all it reminded 
you so terribly of the real thing. Miss O’Neil would 
appear as one of the nurses, carrying about a bowl of 
gruel, and scolding like aunt Hinsdale’s parrot. She 
was just as disagreeable and contrary as if the men 
had been actually sick, and her growls kept the actors 
in such a state that they could scarcely speak for 
laughing. Silas Hackett was the surgeon, and sawed 
off Pitkin Jones’s leg beautifully. “You never told 
me you were going to do that, Cyrus ! Legs are very 
improper ! ” And when it fell to the floor with a loud 
noise, she informed the audience it was only a stick of 
wood, for she could see the end of it through the top 
of the boot. 

Mother found all this rather fatiguing, and present- 
ly slipped out of the room without saying anything. 
Whereupon Miss O’Neil came up to me, as I stood 





THERE WAS ANOTHER GIRL REFLECTED ON 
THE FLOOR. 


The Yellow Phantom. 


Page 74 



































































MISS O'NEIL EXPRESSES HER MIND. 95 


by one of the windows, talking with Mr. Loring and 
Oscaforia, and said, as if it were the best news in the 
world, — 

“ Miriam, your mother is failing fast.” 

“ O, no, ma’am ; I hope not ! ” 

“Yes, she is, too. Everybody sees it but just your 
family.” 

I looked at Mr Loring, but he was watching the new 
moon ; and then at Oscaforia, but she was playing with 
# her fan. I could not catch their eyes. 

“I never saw such singular people,” added Miss 
O’Neil, in that angry tone of hers, as if she were re- 
senting an insult. “You wouldn’t be thought any- 
thing of at Machias — a girl that has parties in her 
mother’s last days ! ” 

Mother’s last days ! A strange sensation came over 
me, like choking, — and like wanting to choke Miss 
O’Neil too. What right had she to push herself into 
my house, and talk to me so ? 

“Miss O’Neil,” said I, determined to frown her 
down, — for I wouldn’t have her see a tear in my eye 
for the world, — “ you are quite mistaken in what you 
say of my mother. But really, ma’am, if I saw things 
as you do, and thought people had parties at improper 
times, it seems to me I would stay away, especially 
when I wasn’t invited.” 

There, I knew that was very rude, and would make 
her hate me worse than ever ; but I declare I couldn’t 
help it. Mr. Loring smiled at the moon, and Oscaforia 
looked as shocked as her exquisite manners will allow ; 
but Miss Pry didn’t wince. 

“Miriam Linscott, I’m a particular friend of your 


06 


THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER. 


mother’s, and don’t stand on ceremony in her housa 
But I must say this : if I have my senses when I am 
buried, I hope nobody will follow me to my grave with 
such actions as you’ve had here to-night.” 

Mr. Loring turned round from the window quite ex- 
asperated, just as I have seen him sometimes when the 
school-boys were playing behind his back. 

“Miss O’Neil, I beg you, for Miss Marian’s sake, to 
choose some other topic of conversation. Mrs. Pres- 
cott has just been pouring coffee for us ; and here you 
speak of her as if she were at the point of death. It 
is really too absurd ! ” 

Miss O’Neil fixed her two round eyes on Mr. Lor- 
ing with great severity. 

“Mr. Lovell,” said she, “did you ever have a 
mother ? ” 

The question was so unexpected that Oscaforia 
couldn’t manage her mouth — it danced right up; 
but Mr. Loring answered, seriously, — 

“Yes, madam, I am happy to say — ” 

“Then,” said Miss O’Neil, “I wonder you don’t see 
how proper it is that Miriam should be prepared for 
the worst. Mrs. Linscott’s death may be momentary — 
who knows? She poured out the coffee just now; but 
what of that? So did Judge Dillingham’s father, — I 
mean shaved himself, — and leaned right back and 
died.” 

“ Let me go ! ” I cried, darting out between Mr. Lor- 
ing and Oscaforia, and rushing to the bay-window. It 
seemed as if I must have air or die. Robert stood 
there, examining some queer stones I had put at the 
foot of my calla lily. 


MISS O 'NEIL EXPRESSES HEP MIND. 97 


“ Why, Marian, what is it?” said he. 

“ Hush, Robert ; I can’t bear a word ! ” 

He saw I wanted to get out of sight of everybody, 
and he did just what I should have asked of him if I 
had only thought of it, — brought me an ottoman, and 
then stood with his back between me and the light. 
In that way I had a chance to collect my thoughts. 

What did Miss O’Neil mean ? She is very nearly a 
fool ; still she does hit the truth sometimes. Let peo- 
ple drop remarks, and she is sure to pick them up 

“ as pigeons peas, 

And utter them again as God may please.” 

You can generally tell through her what is talked of in 
the neighborhood. 

“ Robert, come up to me, and speak very low. What 
are people saying about my mother ? ” 

He did not answer at once, and then it was only by 
asking a question. 

“Why do you care what people say? They can 
only judge from appearances. They know nothing of 
the case.” 

“ O, Robert, you are putting me off! Tell me what 
you think yourself?” 

“I, Marian?” 

“Yes, you. Your opinion is next as good as my 
father’s. You are going to be a physician some time, 
and you are always looking into things through a mi- 
croscope. Tell me quick what you think.” 

“ I think your mother is very delicate indeed, with 
a strong tendency — ” 

“ There, Robert Willard, you are enough to provoke 

7 


98 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


a saint ! Talking about my mother as if she were 
common flesh and blood, and as far off* as Botany Bay ! 
You think she will come home strong and well. Say 
so this minute ! ” 

“ I hope so.” 

“ Say you think so ! Say you know so ! If you let 
her die, Robert Willard, if you and my father let her 
die, I’ll never forgive you as long as I live ! ” 

“Hush, Marian ! You talk too loud. Let us go into 
the garden.” 

It was well he thought of that. I stepped out, and 
he followed, but left me a minute to go for a glass of 
water. I never felt so before — as if all out-of-doors 
wasn’t wide enough to breathe in. But drinking some 
water, and having my face bathed with it, relieved me 
a little. 

“Now, Marian,” said Robert, very sternly, “if you 
will control yourself, and behave like a woman, I will 
talk to you — otherwise not.” 

It was a strange way for Robert to speak, and it 
surprised and hurt me so that I was on my dignity in 
a moment. 

“Yes, I’ll behave like a woman; like one that’s cut 
out of stone. Speak, and tell me my mother is going 
to die. Make believe I don’t care any more about it 
than you would if it were your mother, you know.” 

I cannot tell what made me say such a cruel thing, 
for even as I spoke a picture flashed up before me of 
Robert drawing pale Mrs. Willard in a sedan chair, 
and turning around to toss violets into her lap. She 
always chose him to wait on her rather than her hus; 
band, and he often carried her in his arms, like a baby 


MISS O'NEIL EXPRESSES HER MIND. 99 


Robert was a loving son to his sick mother, and he 
will mourn for her as long as he lives. He had a 
right to be very angry at my remark, but I doubt if 
he heard it; at any rate, he paid no attention to it. 

“You know, of course, Marian, that your mother is 
very feeble ; but I do really think there is strong hope 
of her getting well.” 

“O, Robert, you good old Robert; bless you and 
thank you for that ! ” 

He laughed, and gave me another drink of water. 

“ What I say is nothing original. I only quote from 
your father.” 

“Well, that’s enough. You and my father cannot 
both be wrong.” 

“ But, Marian, to be frank with you, most people 
think your mother’s case is hopeless, — Dr. Ware into 
the bargain.” 

“Dr. Ware! He hasn’t any more feeling than a 
stone wall. I should think he would be ashamed to 
give anybody up in that off-hand way ! Why, it’s out- 
rageous ! ” 

“Yet it must be owned the case is a critical one. 
I wonder you cannot see that for yourself, Marian. 
Have you never been anxious about your mother?” 

“No; that is, not really. She always seems so 
happy, how could I ? ” 

“That is it. You were right in saying she isn’t 
common flesh and blood. And, Marian, there is just 
where the hope lies. It is your high-hearted people 
that outlive what would kill the timid ones. Now, 
her chests” 

“There, don’t say it. It makes me faint hear 


100 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


about people’s organs. You and my father think she 
is going to get well — ” 

“Hope!” 

“Yes, and that is all I want to know. Shake hands 
with me, Robert, and tell me you forgive me for call- 
ing you cold-hearted. I didn’t mean any such thing.” 

I suppose I must have been very pale, for when we 
stepped in at the bay-window, Judith cried out, 
“You’re fainting away ; you’re fainting away!” And 
there would have been a scene in no time if Robert 
hadn’t put a stop to it. He has so much common 
sense ; there’s the beauty of Robert.” 


THE ROM AUNT OF THE ROSE. 101 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE KOMAUNT OF THE ROSE. 


Miss Tottenham . 

September 5. 

ft/HE room seemed to be full of life and gayety, 



and it chilled me all over to hear the girls 
laugh — the very girls who had made up their 
minds mother was going to die. 

“Very well,” thought I ; “let them enjoy themselves. 
I’ll stay here in the corner. I shan’t be missed.” And 
there I stood, feeling “ as alone as Lyra in the sky,” with 
the dreary lonesomeness of mother gone to Cuba, and 
behind that the very abomination of desolation — 
mother gone to heaven. 

While I sniffed at the heliotrope, not caring a 
straw for politeness, Pauline came along, and gave me 
such a look ! It was as good as a small-sized book of 
etiquette. I answered her aloud, “Yes, I’ll come in a 
minute.” 

Pauline wouldn’t forget her manners on the way to 
the scaffold. She would shake out the folds of her 
dress, and hold up her head like a lady, with what the 
gii-ls call “ a good do on her back hair.” But, before I 
had time to obey her, Mr. Loring came up to us, say- 
ing,— 


102 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


“Will you allow me, Miss Marian ? We have been 
playing, ‘ What is my thought like ? ’ and my thought 
was you. Now, why was my thought like this, should 
you say ? ” 

It was a half-open blush rose — blushing all over; 
a very proper way for a rose ! 

“ O, how beautiful ! ” I cried ; and was just going to 
inhale its fragrance, when Mr. Loring laughed, and 
shut down a glass case over it, which was pantomime 
for saying, “ Hands off! Noses off! Done in wax!” 
Then I enjoyed it a second time as a work of art, abso- 
lutely perfect, even to the tiny prickles on the stem. I 
don’t know whether Pitkin Jones meant anything 
hateful or not, when he said, — 

“ A rosebud set with little wilful thorns.” 

Pitkin is famous for quoting poetry. And I enjoyed it 
a third time as a present from dear Mr. Loring, on 
what he calls my sixteenth birthday. I thanked him 
over and over for the rose; but one of the thanks, 
though he did not know it, was for setting me ahead a 
year. I liked his calling it my sixteenth birthday. 

“ Mr. Loring, I don’t see why she is like a rosebud,” 
said Robert, with a mischievous glance at my hair. 
“ If you had said a dandelion now ! ” 

“ Or a leaf of Turkish tobacco,” said Silas Hackett ; 
K that is nearer the color.” 

I was glad to laugh, for Mr. Loring’s talk about the 
“ rosebud garden of girls ” was rather embarrassing, and 
I did not know what to say. 

But that “ respectable, aged, and indignant female,” 
as Silas Hackett calls Miss O’Neil, had scented the 


THE ROSrAUNT OF THE ROSE. 


103 


rose from afar, and came up now to see how she could 
make herself disagreeable. 

“ That’s a beautiful wax image, Mr. Lovell. I hope 
you didn’t give it to Miriam Linscott?” 

“I did.” 

“ Indeed ! And Mrs. Linscott not here to speak 
for herself! Miriam, does your mother, a Christian 
woman, allow you to receive presents from gentle- 
men ? ” 

I thought how ashamed I should be to blush at 
such a speech as that ; so of course I blushed. 

“ Mother will be charmed with it, I am sure,” said 
Pauline, kindly coming to the rescue. “See, Miss 
O’Neil, how perfect the petals are!” 

Miss ONeil glowered at the rose, and then at Mr. 
Loring. 

“ Foolish Galathian,” said she ; “ why didn’t you give 
it to Paulina ? ” 

If she had been trying to make a sensation, she 
made it that time ; you could feel it in the air. 

“ ‘ O, yes, you needn’t tell me,” said she, smoothing 
down her apron. “The time was when you’d have 
given it to Paulina, and been glad to ; and you would 
now, if that little dancing daughter of Benjamin hadn’t 
stuod in the way, writing verses that I’ve heard with 
my own lips, and not a word of truth ever came out of 
them yet. What makes you smile, Cyrus Hackett ? 
I’m very intimate in this family, and how could she 
have a white satin dress and I not know it ? ” 

“How, indeed? I defy her to do it,” said Silas, so 
solemnly that everybody laughed, even Pauline. 

“ And you’ve been under a halluzion of mind, Mr. 


104 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


Lovell, if you think Paulina Linscott scolds. She’s no 
more of a scold than I am. I wish you’d talked 
with me before you gave Miriam that rose. It was 
just what she wrote the poem for, as I could have told 
you. And, if you’re a gentleman, you’ll ask Paulina 
Linscott’s pardon for doing it.” 

For doing what ? I’ll leave it to you, Miss Totten- 
ham, if that speech wasn’t ridiculous enough to ap- 
proach the sublime. Everybody heard it too, for her 
tone was as sharp as boxing your ears. And, in the 
midst of the laughing, Mr. Loring stepped up to Pau- 
line, holding out his hand, and said, — 

“ Miss O’Neil bids me beg your pardon. Will you 
grant it, Miss Prescott, and then tell me what for?” 

There was such a funny twinkle in his eyes that 
Pauline answered forthwith, — 

“Yes, I forgive you, provided Miss O’Neil thinks I 
ought. But will you promise not to do so again?” 
Adding, with one of her lovely blushes, “ Let us see, 
sir — what is it you are never to do again?” 

“I am to give your sister no more roses,” replied 
Mr. Loring. 

And then they both smiled in a very friendly way, 
and not like a couple of Alpine peaks, as they’ve done 
lately. “ The frost is coming out of the ground,” 
thought I. It was just what I had been longing for. 
but hadn’t expected, and now a good laugh had thawed 
it through and through. The first time Miss O’Neil 
ever played the part of a sunbeam, I’ll warrant. 

“Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,” said 
Robert aside to me. I knew that was Shakespeare, 
but didn’t know whether it referred to Miss O’Neil 


THE ROM AUNT OF THE ROSE. 


105 


or me. Both of us are indiscreet enough, I should 
hope ! 

But somehow the sight of Pauline and Mr. Loring 
shaking hands like old times touched my heart; and 
that Soapsuds bubbling with satisfaction because I 
was to have no more roses, touched my risibility. I 
laughed, without the remotest idea I was crying, too, 
till I heard myself sobbing out, “O, dear me! I 
believe I do more harm asleep than other people do 
awake,” meaning the Dream. 

It was not at all the thing to say ; and for fear I 
might put on an appendix that would be still worse, 
I flew out of the room in a sort of gale. Disagreeable 
age, Miss Tottenham ! 

And that was the time I saw the ghost. He stood 
leaning against the kitchen sink, with his hands in his 
pockets, just like real live laziness ; and Thankful sat 
near by, chopping a vegetable hash, and smiling at him 
through her green spectacles — actually smiling. He 
had such a roly-poly figure, and twitched his front hair 
so respectfully when he saw me coming, that I never 
should have mistrusted he was a ghost, if Thankful 
hadn’t introduced him. 

“James Works,” said she; “ Josiah’s brother, that 
lives at Poonoosac.” 

I started back. The man died last March. I re- 
membered all the circumstances ; how my father went 
in a driving storm, and found him battered to pieces, 
frightened and penitent ; how he had been persuaded 
to make a will, restoring Thankful’s thirds, and then 
had died in peace, leaving her with “ something to lay 
her hands to.” And now he had come to take it away 


106 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


again. Why couldn’t he stay dead? I went into 
mother’s room, laughing. 

“Mamma,” said I, “if a man wills away his prop- 
erty, isn’t he obliged to die before anybody can get 
at it ? ” 

Mother looked at me as if she thought me insane. 

“Marian, did you leave your guests in the parlor, 
and come here to ask me such a question as that? 
What have you been doing that makes you look so 
wild?” 

“Nothing; only Robert spilled a little water over 
me, mamma. And the jelly — O, I dropped that on in 
the kitchen. What I want to know is, didn’t James 
W orks will Thankful his thirds ? ” * 

“ Her thirds ? Yes.” 

“ Well, then, he ought to have died ; and I am sure I 
thought he did.” 

“No, Marian; that is one of your mistakes. He is 
alive and well.” 

“Yes, mamma, and leaning against our sink.” 

“ But he had been brought to see he was using ill- 
gotten wealth, Marian, and he would not let poor 
Thankful wait for his death before she had what really 
belonged to her.” 

“How sensible of him, mamma! Now that ac- 
counts for Thankful’s green-glass smiles. I didn’t see 
how she could be so good-natured to him, when she 
hates the whole race of mankind. But just think, it 
must have cost James something to live, if he had to 
,ake the money out of his own pocket.” 

Mother laughed a little ; and then the amused look 


THE ROM AUNT OF THE ROSE. 


107 


changed into an angelic expression, which I couldn’t 
bear to see. 

“ He has had such a glimpse of the great realities of 
life, Marian, that I suppose those few thousands seem 
no more to him now than motes floating in the sun- 
shine. When we are brought so near the gates of 
heaven that we can look in — ” 

“Mother, mother, mother!” cried I, throwing my 
arms around her. “Don’t say a word about heaven, 
unless you want to kill me.” 

I suppose she saw I was very much excited, for she 
stopped talking, and began to brush my hair, and wash 
out the jelly-stain in the waist of my dress, and soothe 
me with soft mother-touches, till I grew reasonable 
enough to be trusted in the parlor once more. When 
I got there, I was in such a daze that I forgot my 
manners worse than ever, as Pauline must have seen. 
But she didn’t give me the curtain-lecture afterwards 
that I had expected. On the contrary, she kissed me 
very tenderly, and then held me out at arm’s length, 
saying,— 

“ X must confess you are a graceful creature, Marian. 
Yes, that is true. I wish you would be a little more 
circumspect and composed. But, after all, dear, I 
don’t know but it is just as well to let you alone. 
You will see for yourself, one of these days, how queer 
you are sometimes. And really you do behave better 
than Oscaforia Jones.” 

1 could hardly believe my ears, for Oscaforia’s man- 
ners are considered very remarkable. There was a 
stranger here last summer who said he had never seen 


108 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


such high-bred composure in a girl of sixteen p he 
should think she had made the grand tour. 

“ Why, child, of course you can’t be compared with 
her for studied elegance; that’s not what I mean,” 
said Pauline. “ But I suppose the very fact that Os- 
caforia’s elegance is studied makes it rather tiresome 
occasionally. I said to myself, this evening, Give me 
my dear little sister, with her perfect unconsciousness ! 
I begin to think a certain friend of ours is right, who 
says it is Miss Marian’s greatest charm.” 

I wanted to ask what friend of ours she meant ; but, 
just as I looked up, and was going to speak, she 
blushed, and then I knew. O, yes! If Mr. Loring 
approves of me, I can wear a foolscap and bells, and 
no questions asked ! 

For, you see, I blundered into the front entry while 
he and Pauline were standing in the doorway, looking 
at the firmament on high, and heard him say to her, 
“ Pauline, may I give you that polar star ? ” “ May I ? ” 
As if he were so well acquainted up there that he 
thought of coaxing the Little Bear to shake it down,, 
only he had his doubts about its being good enough 
for her ! “ W ell, there,” thought I, “ Mr. Loring’s gen- 

erosity is growing upon him fast ! ” He gave me one 
of the “ stars of earth,” — that’s a flower, — but noth- 
ing short of the stars of heaven will do for Pauline ; 
and perhaps they won’t, either. “ Stars, you’d better 
hide your diminished heads ! ” 

Of course I knew what he meant. Something about 
constancy, and looking at the Little Bear up there at 
the same time he did, and “ remembering me when this 
you see,” and all that sort of foolishness. 


THE ROM AUNT OF THE ROSE. 


109 


I stole off as soon as possible; but that star has 
thrown a flood of light into my mind. I see the points 
of it ! I shouldn’t be surprised, any time, to hear of 
his writing letters to her, and her answering them too. 

This is “ surmising,” though, and never will go any 
farther; for you may be pretty sure I shan’t think 
aloud, or dream aloud, again, after all that has 
happened. 

But one question comes to me very forcibly : Why 
is it that people grow sillier as they grow older ? In- 
telligent people, I mean. For I certainly don’t be- 
lieve a girl of my age could stand and take the gift 
of a star without laughing. But Pauline did. She 
looked up at the sky, and never so much as smiled. 


110 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE MOTHER-WANT. 


Miss Tottenham. 



October 1. 

a few days more, and they are to start. 


/«4 NLY 

W Ho you hear that, Miss 


Tottenham ? I tell 
my father that every time I look at mother 
I am cut to the heart. Yet I can’t keep away from 
her ; I feel better close to her. My father laughs, and 
says “ it is on the principle of clasping a thorn close, 
and it won’t prick.” 

My dear mother comes up stairs every night, and 
talks to me so beautifully that it seems as if I never 
could have a wrong thought again as long as I live. 
She makes God seem as close to me as the beatings of 
my own heart. And when she goes away, I have a 
feeling somehow as if she had left flowers in the room, 
and the softest moonlight, and such an air of peace ! 
Now, I can’t make you understand what I mean, and I 
don’t think I really know myself! . 

Pauline has a great deal more to do yet before she 
is ready for Cuba. Sewing can’t progress much when 
you are dancing off every other minute, taking walks 
and rides. Her going sailing last evening was a great 
piece of foolishness, for she was making a cambric 


THE MOTHER-WANT. 


Ill 


wrapper for mother, and I had to finish it myself. Just 
as I began on the button-holes, my father came in. 

“ Where is Pauline ? ” said he. 

“Taking a boat-ride with Mr. Loring. The air will 
do her good,” replied mother, always ready to justify 
our eldest. 

“Ah? Sits the wind in that corner?” said my 
father, as if it were news. 

“Yes, sir,” spoke up Benjie, who was watching the 
river from the window; “the wind blows down stream; 
’twill blow ’em home, and not half try.” 

“ Pauline has such quantities to do that I think her 
conduct is rather inconsistent,” said I, with some dig- 
nity, for I had just spoiled a button-hole. 

My father looked at mother and smiled. Perhaps 
he thinks Pauline has been too hard upon Mr. Loring, 
and ought to make up for it now, even if she goes to 
Cuba with her clothes half made. 

“ Marian,” said he, “ I intended to make you a birth- 
day present, but was disappointed, and had to wait a 
month. Will it do just as well now?” 

“ O, papa, what a question ! ” 

“ Well, come out to the stable with me, then. Helen, 
my child, will you dare to come too ? ” “ Helen, my 

child,” is mother’s name when she is unusually feeble. 
“Well, Marian,” said my father, “look there, and tell 
me what you think. Will that console you for Pau- 
line’s inconsistent conduct ? ” 

It was a little horse, a whitish-bay nag. I never was 
so delighted with anything in my life. I suppose I 
went a little wild, for such a present was quite beyond 
the limit of my expectations. My father never could 


112 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


have afforded it if it had not come in payment of a 
debt he had given up for lost. He said he was satisfied, 
from the experiments I had made, that I could become 
a good rider — for all Keller laughed at me so much 
last summer, because I could not leap a Virginia fence 
at one bound. I never had half a chance to learn, for 
I could only ride Don Pedro a few minutes in the 
afternoon, and not then unless it was “ a general time 
of health.” A medical horse cannot be depended 
upon. 

But when I saw this nag, didn’t I give my father a 
good hugging? And didn’t I take the beautiful beast 
right into my heart, into the south-west corner of it, 
near the fireplace? You are aware, Miss Tottenham, 
it is having things for your very own that brings the 
love. When she rolled her eyes at me, and I knew 
they were my eyes, I loved every winker of them. 
“Fantine,” said I, “come to my arms!” Fantine was 
my first thought, but it has too many sad associations 
connected with “ Les Miserables.” There is a certain 
airy, sprightly grace about my little horse, which sug- 
gests the name of Zephyr, and Zephyr it shall be. Her 
color is generally considered a reddish-gray; but it 
isn’t ; it is roan. I call her “ the red-roan steed,” and 
the dictionary is on my side. Ah, if I had only had 
her a month ago, before this heartache came to be 
chronic ! Her dear little hoofs can’t trample down 
Cuba; and I can never be happy as long as Cuba’s 
head is above water. 

October 9. I can’t stop looking out of the window 
at those golden-violet mountains. I’ve just had a 
horseback ride through Paradise Lane, and almost 


THE MOTHER-WANT . 


113 


know how Mr. Tennant felt when he came out of that 
trance, and didn’t want to speak to anybody, lest he 
should lose sight of the wonderful vision. Why, Miss 
Tottenham, 

“ The world grows sweeter than a heart can bear.” 

If I hadn’t laughed so much at Judith all the way, it 
seems as if I should just have exhaled with ecstasy over 
those glorious old trees ; for “ Autumn has lighted his 
fire in the wood,” and every tree is a torch of a differ- 
ent color. But Judith does sit a horse like a bouncing 
rubber ball. I could think of nothing but Naomi Gid- 
dings and the calf. Robert kept saying, “ Old woman, 
old woman, O, whither so high ? ” Her horse was that 
dead-and-alive thing of Mr. Liscom’s, that couldn’t be 
coaxed out of a creep if you fired a gun at his heels ; 
but Judith was so afraid of being thrown, that when 
we were going single file through Paradise Lane, she 
made Robert ride backward, so he could watch the 
creature’s head, while I kept an eye on his tail. My 
father prescribes horseback riding for Judith; but I 
should think it would give her an ague-cake like Mrs. 
Page’s, she doubles herself up in such a heap. Robert 
is as tender of her as if she were his own grandmother. 
I wonder how much patience Keller would have with 
me, rocking round at such a rate. 

Robert laughs at the name Zephyr. “ If you refer 
to her breathing,” said he, “ you’d better call her 
North-easter, and not mince the matter.” 

Now that’s too bad, for he means “heaves,” a kind 
of horse’s asthma. But it is a mistake ; my father has 
never observed it. It’s only when she runs. But if 
8 


114 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


Robert once gets an idea fixed in his mind, you needn’t 
try to argue with him. 

There is something I’ve seen for myself, but I am 
careful not to mention it. She has a sore foot, and 
tries to favor it. I can’t tell which one it is, though, 
for they all seem to be tender. When I saw her begin 
to limp, to-day, I talked as fast as I could, to take up 
Robert’s attention. 

“ Let’s stop and collect some specimens,” said I, for 
he is crazy about bugs. 

So we alighted in the loveliest spot, beside an unu- 
sually sprightly waterfall, that always reminds you of 
Undine, and Robert watered Zephyr as carefully as a 
tender flower. But, though I hurried with all my 
might, and brought him the horridest kind of a bug, I 
wasn’t quite quick enough ; he was taking up my 
dear Zephyr’s feet, and examining them one by one. 
Then he shook his head over them, and smiled know- 
ingly- 

“ Her shoes don’t fit,” said l. 

“Ahem!” said he. 

“Robert Willard, you have a spite against my horse, 
r*nd have had from the beginning. How do you sup- 
pose the dear little animal enjoys having you criticise 
her feet, and feel her pulse, and examine her tongue ? 
How would you like it yourself?” 

“ O, stop quarrelling ! ” said Judith. “ I’m so tired ! ” 

And Robert had to sit down and let her lean 
against him, while the most charming bug specimens 
went crawling by, and he couldn’t get at them. That’s 
the way she does. Think of my making a pillar, or pil- 
low, of Keller, and his sitting still and allowing it! 








MH3ws> rife 

Jjjj 



IN PARADISE LANE. Page 114. 








THE MOTHER-WANT. 


115 


J udith isn’t strong, but it seems to me she might brace 
herself up a little. 

Well, I mustn’t stay here writing another minute. 
Only think how much I am losing ! I might have been 
with mother for the last half hour ! 

October 13. Well, it is all over. Mother looked 
so beautiful in her travelling dress, and so full of ani- 
mation, that it seemed like a farce her going away for 
her health. You would have taken Pauline for the in- 
valid, she was so strongly scented with lavender on ac- 
count of breaking the bottle in her pocket, instead of 
putting it in her satchel. If she continues so absent- 
minded, I am afraid mother will wish I had gone in 
her place. 

My father meant to accompany them as far as Bos- 
ton ; but he couldn’t possibly leave ; he could only 
drive them to Poonoosac to take the cars. But Mr. 
Loring hadn’t anything under the sun to do just at this: 
time, and could go to Boston as well as not ; and did. 
I never so much as made a single remark about it. 
Give me credit for that, Miss Tottenham. Indeed, I 
had all I could do to “ control myself, and behave like 
a woman.” I am afraid I should have broken down 
at the last, if mamma hadn’t said, playfully, — 

“ Marian, I have made a will, whereby I bequeath to 
you your father and Benjie. Take care of your prop- 
erty, remember.” 

“I don’t like a will,” said I, “ unless it is like James 
W orks’s, where the one that makes it stays round and 
sees to it.” 

Thankful was there, blowing up the air-cushion, and 
I fancied didn’t like what I said ; but I never can really 


116 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


tell how she takes anything, for she hides behind those 
green glasses like a cat under the table. 

I had to take my two hands off mother at last ; and 
Thankful pulled Benjie away, just after he had kissed 
her all out of breath. 

“Thankful,” said dear mamma, — and she tried to 
smile, — “I could not feel as easy as I do about leaving 
home, if it were not for you. It isn’t everybody I could 
trust not to desert my little family.” 

Thankful “turned on her tears,” and said she “hoped 
mother hadn’t knowm her all this time, to doubt her 
now. A woman that had been through as much as she 
had with Josiah was glad enough of a good steady 
home, and wasn’t likely to change her situation.” 

It was a singular time for the memoir; but Tom 
handed the reins to my father, and that cut it short. 
Mother leaned back against the cushion, never taking 
her eyes off Benjie and me. Pauline said, “Marian, re- 
member to write;” and then Don Pedro started off, 
pulling at the reins, and at the cords of my heart too. 
I watched the carryall as long as I could see the little 
window behind, for it seemed like an eye looking back 
at us lovingly. 

I just dreaded to go into the house, there was such a 
“ mother-want ” all over it from chamber to cellar. I 
went up to the attic, but actually it seemed just as be-’ 
reaved as the bed-room, though I don’t know that 
mother has set her foot in it for a year. I wandered out 
to the barn ; but I missed her there just as much as if 
she were in the habit of hunting hens’ eggs with me 
^very day of her life. 

I was going to have a look at my “ red-roan steed,” 


THE MOTHER-WANT. 


117 


bat overheard Robert, in the stable, telling Tom some- 
thing about her feet needing a wash of castile soap and 
some kind of bark. As if my Zephyr had dirtier feet 
than other horses ! Doesn’t she walk on the same kind 
of a road ? 

What we shall do at our house I don’t know. 
Thankful looks like a tombstone, and talks like an 
epitaph. I feel as if I were chief mourner at some- 
body’s funeral. That solemn motto over my looking- 
glass is really consoling, — 

“ Think that To-day shall never dawn again.” 

I should go distracted if it should ! 

Judith came over with some novels. She says they 
will soothe me like chloroform. Judith forgets that I 
never read a book without my father’s approval, — a 
book of that sort, I mean. 

“ When you are out of your teens, daughter Marian, 
you may choose for yourself ; but until then I really 
think you are safer to be guided by your mother 
and me.” 

Is he too notional? Sometimes I think so. One 
thing is sure ; I get precious few novels to read. He 
intends - to bring me up on history and the natural 
sciences, with a sprinkling of poetry, and now and then 
a romance thrown in. Well, I am determined to hon- 
or my parents; and I wish Keller would. “By the 
way,” as he says, what has that boy been writing to 
Thankful about? I brought her the letter myself, and 
she coolly put it in her pocket. 

It was so lonesome all day that I let Benjie whittle 
a steamboat, and paint it, right in the sitting-room. 


118 THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“You couldn’t have done that if Pauline had been at 
at home,” said I. 

“No, you bet! Pauline knows better’n to let me!” 
said the ungrateful child. Benjie must stop talking 
slang, or I shall have to shut him up in the closet. 

October 14. My father didn’t get home till night, so 
many typhoid cases all along the road. The sitting- 
room looked as if it were going to ride out. His eyes 
roved all around, and a gloomy look came into them. 
I sprang up, and swept the shavings into the fire. 

“ How did mother seem when you left her ? Did 
she send any message to me ? ” 

“ She bore up very cheerfully, and her message was, 
‘Tell Marian not to forget my legacy.’ You see, 
daughter,” said my father, drawing me down to his 
knee, “this will try us, and show what stuff we’re 
made of.” 

“Yes, father, I’ve been in a furnace all day.” 

And so I had been, Miss Tottenham. And there I 
have staid ever since. 


DULL DATS. 


11 & 


CHAPTER XV. 


DULL DAYS. 


Miss Tottenham. 



October 15. 


SHOULD think Pauline had eaten a lotus-berry. 


and forgotten all about home. Why dosen’t she 


write? Mr. Loring did more than his duty, for 


he went as far as New York, and saw the travellers 
safely on board the mail steamer Cahawba. There 
they met Mr. and Mrs. Prince, according to agreement. 
Mamma was as bright and brave as when she left our 
door, and said the sea air was giving her new life. 
The state-room windows are very high, and she can 
have a breeze all night, if she likes. They started on 
the 12th, and would reach Havana in six days. 

'Of course there has not been time for a letter. I 
see it now that I have put down the dates in black 
and white. I am like Keller; he says he “gets con- 
siderable information from hearing himself talk.” 

The dull days drizzle along. It is pleasant at 
school ; but I don’t like to come home, unless I bring 
some of the girls. My father talks heroically about 
“rising superior to circumstances;” but I haven’t ob- 
served that he is particularly jolly. Why is it that 
women are always missed so much more than men? 


120 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


When my father is gone, mother keeps on regularly 
with whatever she is doing, and is as tranquil as ever; 
whereas if she herself is gone for only a day, my father 
seems to be thrown off his balance. He was in the 
habit of reading aloud to her in the evening ; but it is 
not worth while to read to me. I cannot understand 
Carlyle, or Emerson, or Browning, or any of those men 
that talk with their mouths full. Moreover I am al- 
ways gone. I wish I had kept an account of the num- 
ber of times my father has said, — 

“It seems strange here without your mother — 
doesn’t it?” 

Or, “We see now who it was that made our home 
so pleasant.” 

And then he gets his dressing-gown and goes otf to 
his study, for we have fallen in the way of not having 
a fire in the sitting-room evenings. That was Pauline’s 
business. She always attended to the front part of the 
house; and perhaps Thankful thinks I might do it 
now ; but the mornings are very short, and I don’t like 
to lose my horseback ride. Thankful digs into the 
carpet at if she were sub-soiling it ; but she makes the 
chairs and tete-a-tetes stand up against the wall like 
total strangers come visiting. The sitting-room does 
not look natural. I wish Thankful showed more grace 
in arrangement. Now, Pauline and mother are always 
moving the furniture about, and giving a touch here 
and a touch there, like an artist painting a picture. 
But poor Thankful means well. I am not blaming her. 

I am sorry to see that my father has less and less 
patience with her pocket-handkerchief. It come out 
regularly now, just after breakfast. Strange she hasn’t 


DULL DATS. 


121 


learned by this time that my father despises the sight 
of tears. She told me the other day she had 44 some- 
thing on her mind ; ” but so she has had ever since 1 
knew her. She grows neater than ever, and has pos- 
itively taken to mopping the barn floor! I wonder 
what the horses think ! Perhaps they are as homesick 
out there as we are in the house. My father hopes 
she won’t scour the bark off the trees in the yard, like 
the Dutch wives of Broeck. 

Benjie behaves awfully, always teasing and hanging 
on to my skirts. Marie Smith teaches a private school 
in the Probate Office ; but he dosen’t go half the time, 
on account of stiff* necks, sore thumbs, toothaches, ear- 
aches, lame ankles, and frogs in the throat. There 
isn’t an inch in his body that hasn’t ached more or less 
since Marie began that school. Mother wouldn’t mind 
his little whimseys ; but my father laughs, and allows 
him to stay at home. The rest of us were ruled with 
a rod of iron. Why, at Benjie’s age I didn’t dare 
wink. I used to think children were as easily trained 
as pea-vines; but I don’t think so now; I have to 
coax or drive that boy to bed every night, so I can go 
and spend the evening with Judith. If I left him up, 
he would be up when I came back; for Thankful is 
very weak about Benjie, and has no more authority 
than a fly. 

October 25. A letter from Pauline. My father 
tried to appear stoical; but I could see he was as 
eager as I was, though he did not dance ! 44 Mamma 

is quite comfortable ; ” that was the very first line. 
The journey scarcely fatigued her. She was interested 
in sea, and sky, and people ; but poor Pauline felt very 


122 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


sick, especially while crossing the Gulf Stream. There 
it grew suddenly rough, and the ocean much warmer, 
as if hot water were being poured in. Strange that the 
Gulf Stream never will unite with the Atlantic Ocean, 
but holds itself aloof, as if it belonged to another family. 
I should just enjoy cantering on its back. It must seem 
like a wild animal no man can tame. And those se- 
rene moonlight nights at sea, with the soft trade-wind 
clouds sailing across the sky ; how mamma must have 
revelled in them ! for she feels the beautiful, just as if 
it were God himself speaking to her. 

Pauline remarked that the Southern Cross was to be 
seen just above the horizon ; so it seems she still re- 
members to look at the stars. Havana is built close to 
the sea; and when they came in sight of it, she grew 
dreadfully homesick. The idea of being homesick 
where mother is! I ought to have been the one to 
go. The flag of Spain was a distressing sight to her 
eyes. It is very gaudy, with red and yellow stripes, 
and glares over the Moro Lighthouse like a torch. 
Well, what if it does? She says the blue, and white, 
and yellow houses, with red roofs, are not like New 
England. I should think she would be glad of it. 
What is the use to go so far from home, if you can’t 
see something new? 

At Havana they parted with Mr. and Mrs. Prince, 
who went on to New Orleans, as they had intended; 
but Dr. Ware was at Havana, on the lookout for the 
Caliawba; and he came from the wharf in a boat to 
meet mother and Pauline. Very kind of him; but I 
cannot forget that he has no hope of mother, and the 
very sound of his name is disagreeable to me. 


DULL DAYS. 


125 


He took them to a fine hotel, where the walls are so 
high that you need a spy-glass to see a fly on the ceil- 
ing. They rode in a volante, and the black driver rode 
too, on the horse’s back. There’s laziness! Pauline 
says the streets are so narrow that you go very close 
*so the houses, and can look in through the glassless 
windows and see what the people are doing. 

Mamina was sadly disappointed because Madame 
Almy could not receive them at once ; but as I said 
before, Dr. Ware took them to an elegant hotel, the 
Le Grand, where they will remain a few days. Pauline 
likes the breakfasts — delicious fruits ; fish with all the 
colors osf the rainbow ; various other dainties, and — 
fried plantains. (She didn’t say whether they had any 
fried smart-weed !) 

How I wish I were in Cuba! It is so commonplace 
at home ! Ladies there do not walk in the streets ; 
and when they go riding, it is in full dress, with flow- 
ers, jewels, fans, &c., but no bonnets. They never pre- 
tend to go shopping ; the shops go to them ; that is, the 
clerks carry out goods to the doors of the carriages, 
and the dainty ladies buy what pleases them. 

I can imagine dear mother riding through those 
streets as pale as a northern snow-drop, and Dr. Ware 
smiling blandly, with hand on vest pocket, ready at a 
moment’s notice to whip out a bottle of some sort of 
reviving drops. He went there for his health as much 
as she did, and, for all I can see, is just as likely to die. 
He has such a beam in his own eye, how can he see 
the mote in mother’s ? 

And I can imagine Pauline sitting up in the volante 
with her high-bred air. The postilion would probably 


124 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


take her for a Spanish lady, on account of her brown 
eyes and dark complexion, only she had no ball-dress 
and fan. 

November 5. I have had six little tea-parties. 
Miss O’Neil came to three. Once the “ verbal music” 
attracted her, and twice it didn’t. I enjoy my “ young 
mates ” better when Pauline is not here to criticize. 

November 6. It seems to take James Works a long 
time to execute that will. I seldom go into the kitchen 
of an evening but I see him leaning against the sink. 
His conversation must be very edifying. I heard him 
tell Thankful about a red cow of his that was 
“breachy.” “I mean to turn her into another cow,” 
said he, “and then beef her.” That may be the 
English language, Miss Tottenham, but it does not 
sound like it. Last night, when Thankful was taking 
the apple-butter off the stove, he said, in pompous 
tones, “ Shall I render you some assistance ? ” But she 
had the kettle off and the stove-cover on before he 
took his hands out of his pockets. 

I wish Thankful would not talk so much about our 
family affairs. She asked me the other day if it was 
not very expensive having mother and Pauline in 
Cuba, and Keller at boarding-school. I told her it 
probably was; but I hoped she wouldn’t take it to 
heart, as she had just as many troubles of her own as 
she could possibly bear. 

“ So I have,” sighed she ; “ I have been singled out 
for affliction from my youth up. But perhaps your fa- 
ther’s business affairs concern me more than you think. 
Being a widow so, I have to look out for myself.” 

I cannot imagine what she means. If her wages am 


DULL DATS. 


125 


paid regularly, isn’t she “looked out for” enough? 
Perhaps she might feel easier if she knew of the five 
hundred dollars, in government bonds, which aunt 
Hinsdale gave me for my name. Thankful is naturally 
low-spirited, but I never knew her so low as this. My 
father says her eyes are a couple of water-sluices in 
excellent repair. What can be the matter? I wonder 
if she feels grieved by my thoughtlessness? Mother 
never asked her to mend the clothes from the wash, 
not even Benjie’s, for her eyes are weak (as might be 
expected) ! But I can’t remember to take a needle 
in hand till Saturday night about bed-time, when 
of course the mending is all done. She loves me 
dearly, and thinks all my faults are very excusable; 
but perhaps she is overwhelmed by my giving so 
many tea and dinner-parties — more than a dozen, I 
declare. She is considered the best cook in Quinne- 
basset; and it taxes her ingenuity to get up new 
dishes, I suppose. I have had Judith and Marie every 
noon regularly, and yesterday asked Oscaforia and 
Sarah Hinsdale, because I happened to meet them on 
the street, and forgot entirely that Thankful was down 
with sick-headache. It did seem rather cruel, and the 
dear soul felt so mortified about the burnt pudding- 
sauce, that I asked her forgiveness, and gave her moth- 
er’s purple breakfast shawl. My father said I might ; 
he dislikes purple. He asked me yesterday if I wasn’t 
afraid Thankful worked too hard. I have decided to 
invite no more company for the present ; but really it 
is Thankful’s own fault that I pine for society. If she 
were not here, I verily believe I should not be so lone* 


some. 


120 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XYI. 


A NEW RESOLVE. 


Miss Tottenham . 


November 15. 


PAULINE writes that they are comfortably es- 
tablished at Madame Almy’s, and like very 



much. Mother was annoyed at the Le Grand 
by not having a bed to sleep on ; nothing but sacking, 
without a mattress. She heard clocks striking the 
quarter hours all night, and watchmen blowing whis- 
tles, and crying “ serenos ” at every stroke, all of which 
disturbed her rest. Pauline says she is really gaining 
now. Isn’t it glorious ? Dr. Ware does not improve, 
and lias gone to Matanzas. Just as I expected! 

Last night I went to the sink to get some water for 
my plants, having forgotten them in the morning, and 
Thankful began about my father’s heavy expenses 
again, and asked me if I had never been afraid Keller 
might run in debt. Boys often do at school, she says. 
u But there is this about it,” she added, as if to comfort 
me ; “ if he should run in debt, your father is an honor- 
able man, and would feel responsible, you may be sure 
of that.” 

I could not see what interest she should have in the 


A NEW RESOLVE. 


127 


question, or what satisfaction she could take in con- 
juring up such absurd notions ; but I merely said, — 

“ O, yes ; my father is sure to do the right thing, 
whatever it is.” 

“ That is what I always tell folks,” cried she ; “ he’s a 
good, pious man, if he does speculate so much in real 
estate ; and when your sister is married, there’ll be one 
less to provide for.” 

I didn’t say a word ; it was such a shock to hear her 
speak of Pauline’s being married. I had never thought 
of it before, not definitely — still, I suppose it will come 
to that in time — one of these years. Well, Pauline is 
very much mistaken if she thinks she can ever be as 
happy anywhere else as she is at home. How can 
she bear the thought of leaving her father and 
mother ? 

“Yes; you see there’ll be one less to provide for,” 
said Thankful; “and your father’s expenses won’t be so 
heavy; so I tell folks it’s no use to borrow trouble. 
Do you suppose your sister’ll marry, come another 
spring?” 

“My sister has never spoken of being married at all, 
and it is a subject I do not think proper to discuss,” 
said I, with some dignity. 

But Thankful only sniffed, and said, — 

“ Haven’t I got a pair of eyes in my head ? Can’t I 
see who comes to this house ? ” 

“Perhaps you mean Mr. Works, of Poonoosac,” 
said I ; “he is here oftener than any one else.” 

Thankful sighed heavily at that. 

“James Works was my husband’s own brother,” 
said she. “ It is a pity if he can’t come here to see me 


128 


THE DOCTOR S DAUGHTER. 


on business, without people in the village making re- 
marks.” 

“ I never heard it mentioned,” said I. 

“ O, but it is in everybody’s mouth, child. His be- 
ing a widower so, makes it very unpleasant for me,” said 
she, going into her pocket handkerchief. “He has 
been here on very solemn business lately, I can assure 
you. I have been having Josiah taken up and put in 
the new graveyard at Poonoosac.” 

Then she fell to crying so hard that I could not im- 
agine what it was for, knowing it certainly wasn’t for 
grief, till she broke forth very spitefully, — 

“ I declare for it, there isn’t the least honor among 
sextons. I paid Mr. Black handsomely for taking up 
Josiah; but I’ve no idea I got more than half of 
him ! ” 

“Why, Thankful Works!” said I, trying my best 
not to smile. 

“ No, I really don’t think I got more than half. I’d 
be willing to leave it out to anybody if it wasn’t a very 
small mess of bones for a man of his size.” 

It was such a singular thing to show temper about ! 
and she looked so dreadfully indignant that I hurried 
off as fast as possible, shaking so that half the water 
from the sprinkler ran into my slipper. When I 
reached the sitting-room, I told my father how Thank- 
ful had been imposed upon in the matter of bones, and 
he laughed heartily, for the first time, I believe, since 
mother went away. 

“ Thankful’s strong point is her indignation,” said he. 

Then he repeated a letter, word for word, which she 


A NEW RESOL VE. 


129 


once wrote her brother-in-law, beginning, “ Indignation 
still bums in the bosom of myself,” &c. 

“But she has forgiven James Works since he gave 
back the thirds,” said I ; “ and they are the best of 
friends. He is as interested in her as an own brother.” 

November 18. My work-box happened to be sitting 
on the stairs yesterday, and Benjie fell over it head- 
long. Thankful decided that his knee was broken, and 
We laid him screaming on the sofa to await my father’s 
return. How I longed for mother! It was a season 
of great remorse and anxiety for me, till Jowler hap- 
pened to come into the room with a stick in his moutk 
when Benjie jumped up and ran after him. My fear*, 
subsided then. All the little boys in town heard of the 
fearful accident, and came with their dogs to make visits 
of condolence — very good for lameness. The more 
boys, the less limping. Benjie is trying hard this even- 
ing to save up a little stiffness against to-morrow, just 
enough to keep him out of school. No doubt he’ll suc- 
ceed. I’ll put him to bed now, and go to Judith’s. 

November 19. Robert came in this morning with a 
beaming face. 

“ Where is your father ? ” cried he ; “ I’ve found a 
live — ” 

There, I forget the name; but it’s something that 
crawls. 

Thankful says, “ It does beat all how folks can hav 
their minds taken uj) with such small concerns.” I 
thought of that very thing myself when I saw her cry 
about the pudding sauce. 

November 20. Mother has written two precious 
9 


130 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


letters to my father. She still improves, and would 
be very happy if she had us all with her. She says, — 

“ Tell dear little Marian to take good care of my 
legacy. Her task is no light one ; but we do not ex- 
pect or ask for our child an easy time in the world, and 
it may be as well for her to learn young the lesson 
that ‘with self renunciation begins life.’ I hope she 
remembers that even Christ pleased not himself.” 

No, dear mamma, I had not remembered it ! I, who 
once thought I was trying to be like him ! I want to 
hide my face for shame. 

“ With self renunciation begins life.” I am sure 
Carlyle said that, for the words are put together in the 
hardest way. But what does it mean? Why, that 
we must put self one side before we can really live. 
Self, self, get thee behind me! 

Dear mamma pities me, and thinks I am wearing 
myself out for the family ; and here I am, floating about 
like a great lazy butterfly. 

My father said in his prayer this morning, “ Teach us 
how sublime a thing it is to live.” 

Yes, there is such a thing as making one’s life 
sublime, — for instance, mother; and there is such a 
thing as making it ridiculous, — for instance, Marian. 

Papa, you shall not spend all your evenings alone. 
Thankful, you’ll do no more mending. Benjie, you 
needn’t go to bed with the chickens. Poor little 
fellow, is it your own sister Mamie that has abused 
you so ? 

Into the writing-desk, Miss Tottenham. 1 wish to 
have a little private conversation with myself. 


BRIGHTENING THE HOUSE. 


131 


CHAPTER XVII. 

BRIGHTENING THE HOUSE. 

Miss Tottenham. 

t November 25 . 

DO believe there is no satisfaction equal to that 
of acting from high motives. After mother’s let- 
ter came, I aroused myself, and determined to 
take my true place as the daughter of the house. 
Not that I expected anything particular would come 
of it, or that anybody would observe it; I hope I 
am more genuine than that ! I merely meant, as Thank- 
ful says in prayer-meeting, to “ do my duty as far forth 
as I know how.” 

Firstly, I announced to Mrs. Works that I intended 
to take care of the front part of the house. 

“Well,” said she, coolly, “you’ll find the broom in 
the cellar-way.” 

I labored over the sitting-room till it seemed like it- 
self, and the pieces of furniture looked as if they were 
acquainted with one another once more. Then Zephyr 
and I galloped through Paradise Lane, and gathered 
boughs of late autumn leaves to light up the walls of 
the room, and give a warm tone to the pictures and 
statues. But real heat we must have too ; for I was 


182 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


determined to lure papa away from that old office. I 
was just lighting the fire when Judith walked in. 

“ O, dear ! ” said she ; “ why haven’t you been over ? 
I didn’t feel able to come, and it has put me all out of 
breath.” 

“ My father says the women of this age are ‘ born 
fatigued,’ ” said I ; “ and of all the tired specimens, you 
are the tiredest, Miss Judith. I didn’t go to youi 
house, because I had work to do. Benjie’s all out at 
elbows, and I found a hole in the hall carpet, and — ” 

“Why, Marian, it would kill me to work at such a 
rate. Your face is the color of that blush rose. Just 
look in the glass, and see if it isn’t. What possesses 
you, all of a sudden ? ” 

“ O, I’m trying to make it look natural and pleasant 
for Keller when he comes home to Thanksgiving.” 

That really was one little reason floating on top ; 
but the solid reason underneath was, that I was trying 
to do right. You know our deepermost motives are the 
very ones we can’t tell. 

“Do these andirons look bright enough, Jude?” 

“ Gay as gold,” said she. “ I like your brass-topped 
fender and your pictorial bellows beyond everything. 
This is just the cosiest house in town.” 

“Yes,” said I; “only Thankful has cried so much that 
the walls feel damp, and we need a roaring fire.” 

“You wouldn’t complain of Thankful, if you had to 
live with aunt Esther,” said Judith. “She has turned 
our house into a regular rag-factory, and is making 
‘drawn-in’ rugs out of our old clothes. I’m so glad 
Robert won’t let me sew, or I should be kept at it all 



MARIAN AND JUDITH. Page 133- 

















BRIGHTENING THE HOUSE. 


133 


day, like Tid and Mate. Just think how stupid it is 
for me, Marian ! Tid and Mate pair off, you know, and 
I don’t have much to do with them, and the little boys 
are only a trial, and father stays at the store most of 
the time. If it wasn’t for Robert, I should just die. 
He is the only one in the house that tries to make 
things comfortable.” 

I wanted to say, “Why don’t you try yourself?” 
But I won’t preach, so there ! Let me practise a while 
first. While I brushed the hearth, Judith lay back on 
the sofa with half-shut eyes, and I asked what she was 
dreaming about. 

“ O,” said she, “ if we could only make the world 
over again, how beautiful it might be! We would 
leave out all the disagreeables, such as east winds, and 
rain-storms, and 4 equinomical ’ people ; and we’d pre- 
serve the roses and zephyrs, and rainbows and good 
times. I’m going to live with my Reginald in a castle 
by the sea, with opal sunsets dipping into the blue 
waves ; and there’ll be none of the trials of life coming 
to beat against the walls. He will be a poet-laureate, 
with a wreath of amaranth round his brow.” 

“Brown paper and vinegar will be better, Jude, if 
he’s troubled with headache.” 

“Hush, Marian! And he will adore me as your 
father does your mother.” 

“I can’t see any earthly reason why he should,” 
cried I. And then we fell into a fit of laughing ; and 
in the midst of it, my father stalked through the room, 
which mortified Judith so much that she slipped out by 
the side door and went home. If we ever do get to 
laughing in that absurd way and can’t stop, mji 


134 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


father is sure to appear, with a preternaturally solemn 
lace, and say something sarcastic about the “ giggling 
age.” 

This time he was so tired, after a hard ride, that he 
scarcely spoke till he had had a cup of tea. Then, after 
a remark to Benjie on the subject of jackknives, he went 
into the sitting-room again on his way to the office. Now, 
my father isn’t a man that observes things in detail ; he 
couldn’t have told what I had been doing to the room ; 
but he saw that the general effect was different, and 
his face lighted up wonderfully. 

“ So you’ve been cleaning house, daughter. And 
you’ve set the lire to blazing again. Well, that’s pleas- 
ant. O, you’re expecting company — are you?” 

“ No, papa ; don’t be frightened ; nobody but you. I 
built the fire for the rheumatic oid flies. I see they 
wake up stiff in the morning when they go to bed cold.” 

“Well, well,” said he, laughing, “I suppose if I en- 
joy the fire too, it won’t interfere with the flies. I’ll 
bring my books in here, and we’ll try to be sociable.” 

Then Benjie shuffled in through the entry as if he 
were being dragged. 

“ I say, Mamie, I don’t want to go to be-ed ! ” 

But when he saw the fire dancing on the hearth, he 
sprang into my arms, crying, — 

“Isn’t it festive? Who’s a-coming? Mayn’t I sit 
up and see ’em ? ” 

“ There is no one coming, Benjie ; and if you’ll be a 
dear, quiet little boy, you may sit up till you are 
sleepy.” 

“Hooray! Hoora-ay! Hooray for evermore!” 
shouted he, swinging his arms in ecstasy. 


BRIGHT/' WING THE HOUSE. 


135 


Dear little fellow'. There is such a thing as chib 
dren’s rights, and I don't mean to interfere with yours 
any more. 

“ W ell, this is cheerful,” said my father, wheeling in 
his big chair, and putting on the dressing-gown I had 
ready for him. 

The fire brightened his whole face, and warmed his 
imagination, so that he began to make up the most en- 
tertaining stories ; and Benjie sat on his knee, drawing 
in bis little lips as if he were imbibing nectar. 

After a while we fell to discussing all sorts of sub- 
jects ; and I thought, as I’ve often thought before, that 
my father, in certain moods, is the most agreeable man 
I ever saw. I asked him if he could hear my lessons 
again next winter. He said, Certainly, if we would 
submit to a little irregularity. 

“And, papa, are you willing Judith should recite 
with me in Latin ? ” 

I dared not add geometry, for Judith is very much 
afraid of him, and would never like to have him know 
how dull she is in figures. 

“ O, yes ; I shall be quite willing to hear her recita- 
tions when she is not up in the blue.” 

“ O, papa, she is not half so absent-minded as you 
think. People don’t understand Judith.” 

“Probably not. Sentimental young ladies are too 
deep to be understood.” 

When he called Judith “sentimental,” with that 
quiet smile of his, there didn’t seem to be anything left 
of her bigger than the head of a pin. I hastened to 
change the subject by showing him a fossil Robert had 
found in the woods. But that only reminded him to 


136 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


Bay he wished Judith had an interest in the natural 
sciences ; for then she might not sit curled up like a 
dormouse, but run about enough to get a little color, 
and correct the morbid tone of her mind. My father 
is very hard on Judith. I believe he thinks she is 
the sort of girl to elope with a dancing-master. Robert 
is after his own heart, because he is fond of poking in 
the dirt. He is the only person in town who has free 
access to my father’s office, and library, and surgical in- 
struments. He spends hours combining fluids of differ- 
ent colors in a retort, and weighing gases, which, I 
suppose, is a sign of a well-balanced mind. As if we were 
all expected to be just alike in this world! Judith 
may not love science, but she dotes on poetry ; and let 
her faults be what they may, she is my best friend, 
and I won’t have my own father ridicule her if I can 
help it. 

December 4. Keller has come and gone. At first 
it seemed very odd to him without mother and Pau- 
line; but I tried my very best to be agreeable, and 
never let the fire go low in the sitting-room, and he 
said it was jollier than he expected. Really he came 
very near being confidential with me. He was like 
himself, only he didn’t whistle ; and mother says, “ I 
shall always feel safe about my two boys as long as I 
can hear them whistle.” I hope there isn’t any trou- 
ble on his mind that has stopped the music. I told 
him how tearful Mrs. Works had been this fall, and 
how she even cried at the bare idea of his running in 
debt ; and he began to walk the floor, and look so con- 
fused, that it startled me, though I will not be mean 
enough to suspect that that boy has done anything 


BRIGHTENING THE HOUSE. 


137 


wrong. Thankful was so overjoyed to see him, that 
she put on the purple shawl, and smiled all over her 
face. 

“Why, Thankful,” said he, “how handsome your 
shoulders are ! What has been your object in hiding 
them under layers of capes, shortest ones uppermost, 
like shingles on the roof of a house ? ” 

She laughed, for she lets Keller say what he pleases. 

“You look like another woman,” he said. “What 
has become of your owl-eyed glasses, and your outlandish 
cap ? Somebody will be falling in love with you, next 
thing.” 

Thankful groaned. 

I enjoyed Keller’s visit hugely, only he made fun of 
Zephyr. 

“ She was taken for a bad debt,” he said, “ and ought 
to be a bad horse, which, if I am any judge, she cer- 
tainly is.” 

He means nothing against her moral qualities, for a 
sweeter pony never breathed. Physically speaking, 
she may not be all I could wish ; but how is she to 
blame for that ? In addition to the tenderness of her 
feet, I am afraid she is having trouble with one of her 
eyes. 


138 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A MYSTERY IN THE ATTIC. 


Miss Tottenham. 

January 1. 

EPHYR began the year by a fall. Tom was 



7411 leading her into the barn, and she fell flat on the 
ice. “ What ice ? ” I hear you ask, Miss Tot- 
tenham. Well, I should call it the glaciers of neatness. 
Thankful had just been washing the barn again, and, as 
the thermometer is two degrees below zero, the floor 
froze as smooth as glass. The dear beast was dread- 
fully shaken. Tom rubbed her faithfully, and I went 
out and fed her with cake. If Thankful’s extraordinary 
neatness continues, Zephyr must wear skates. 

I went into the kitchen, which was fragrant with 
boiling suds, and said I, “ Thankful, do please tell me 
what ails you. You never were in the habit of wash- 
ing the barn floor ; you know you never were.” 

She only answered by a burst of tears. I looked 
at her critically, and was struck with the yellow tinge 
of her face. Instead of “ strawberries smothered in 
cream,” it is more like orange-peel smothered in lem- 
onade. 

“ Thankful,” said I, “ perhaps it is your liver. My 


A MYSTERY IN THE ATTIC. 


139 


father will give you some pills, if you will only describe 
the case.” 

“ Pills ? ” echoed Thankful with a grim smile. “ If 
he’ll mix me something that’ll settle my mind, I’ll 
thank him.” 

“ O, is that it ? ” 

“Yes ; that’s just it. I don’t suppose you’d take me 
for a shifty-minded woman ; now would you ? ” 

“No, indeed, Thankful; I thought your mind was 
always made up tight, and fastened with an iron bolt.” 

“You dear little soul,” said she, offering me a chair, 
“I wish you’d sit down here, and tell me your candid 
opinion of James Works.” 

“ Why, Thankful, I am not in the least acquainted 
with Mr. Works. I’ve only seen him in passing 
through the room.” 

“ Y ery true ; but I’m kind of curious to know how 
he strikes you. There isn’t another girl of your age in 
Quinnebasset so sharp-witted as you are, and that’s 
what I’ve always maintained.” 

“ Why, Thankful ! ” said I, very much flattered ; 
“ I’m sure I ought to answer your question after such 
a compliment as that! You would like to know what 
sort of impression I have received of Mr. Works, just 
from seeing him a few times ? ” 

“Yes, dear, I want your honest mind,” said Thankful, 
smoothing down her outside cape. 

“Well, if you really wish to know, he is dreadfully 
disagreeable to me. I’m tired to death of seeing him 
tilted back against the kitchen wall like a great bag of 
meal, A /id that everlasting smile! It doesn’t mean 
<t thing; it’s only a pucker of the lips, like getting 


140 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


ready to whistle. And then his hands always in h>^ 
pockets ! How do you stand it, Thankful, to have him 
round so much ? ” 

Thankful drew herself up as straight as Bunker 
Hill Monument. I never was so surprised ; after she 
had asked my opinion too ! 

“I should be pleased to know, Marian Prescott,” 
said she, “what James Works has ever done to you or 
any of your folks that you should run on in that style • 
You don’t know anything about him. And I think it 
would be quite as becoming in a girl of your age to 
talk more respectful ! ” 

With that Thankful walked right out in the dark 
kitchen and shut herself up. The next moment she 
began to sing. She always sings when her feelings are 
hurt. And O, dear, such dismal hymns! I hate to 
wound her, on that account. I’m sure I hadn’t the 
least idea she ever cared enough for her husband to 
resent what was said of his brother. But it seems 
she did. 

January 3. Thankful has scarcely spoken for two 
days. She is perfectly pleasant and polite, but every 
word seems to come from the depths of a broken 
heart. If she expects me to take back what I said 
about James Works, she will be disappointed. She 
asked my opinion — didn’t she? Well, I gave it; and 
if it was a wrong one, so much the better for James. 
He may be the salt of the earth, and I hope he is ; but 
I don’t believe it. He came again last night, and I 
went into the kitchen, not knowing he was there. He 
said it was a “trimmer of a cold night; and didn’t 
I think a man that had come all the way from Poo* 


A MTS TER T IN THE ATTIC. 


141 


noosac to see Mrs. Works ought to have a cup of her 
celestial ginger tea ? ” 

He winked, and looked so silly, that I think it mor- 
tified Thankful, for she disappeared behind the pantry 
door. 

January 5. Such strange things are happening at 
our house! I think, as Zephyr does, that the world 
has grown slippery. Thankful told my father last night 
she would like to consult him in his office. I supposed 
it must be in relation to some hidden disease, and 
pitied her very much. Her mother died of dropsy. I 
wondered if it was hereditary. I didn’t believe Thank- 
ful could have it, though, because she shed so many 
tears ! 

“Papa,” said I, when he came back to the sitting- 
room, “ is it anything I may ask you about ? ” 

He drew his chair before the fire, and broke out into 
little explosions of laughter. 

“Yes, I’d as lief tell you as not. Thankful has been 
asking my candid opinion of James Works.” 

“Why, she asked mine too! Did you give yours, 
papa ? ” 

“Yes, Marian, I was just such a fool. I was taken 
off my guard, in the first place, by her talking as if she 
did not intend to marry him.” 

“Marry him, papa! I should think not! Did he 
ever dare ask her ? ” 

“ It seems he has had the courage. But she says she 
told him one slice off a loaf was enough, and she didn’t 
approve of marrying twice into the same family. I as- 
sured her she was quite right. ‘James Works is a 
mercenary, good-for-nothing fellow, and is after your 


142 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


money,’ said I. ‘ If you accept him, you’ll be doing a 
foolish thing.’ 

“ I spoke my honest convictions, out of regard to the 
good soul, for I really respect her ; but next minute I 
saw my mistake. I knew by the nipping of her lips 
that she had made up her mind to marry him.” 

“Why, father Prescott! After all she has said 
about ‘never marrying again, no, never’?” 

“Well, yes; after all that, my dear. ‘Thank you, 
doctor,’ said she. ‘No doubt you’ve stated your candid 
opinion ; but I see you’ve been misinformed. James 
Works is a very different man from what you take him 
to be. He’s a better calculator than Josiah was ; but 
as for being stren-oo-ous about a half cent, as some 
folks tell about, it’s no such a thing.” 

“ That told the whole story — that and the flash of 
her eye. Good enough for me ! And, daughter Mar- 
ian, if I ever give another candid opinion, may I be 
served in the same way again ! ” 

Then my father rubbed his hands and laughed. 
Well, if he sees anything funny in it, it is more than I 
do. I always supposed Thankful a truthful woman, 
but now it seems to me she has perjured herself. Papa 
evidently excuses her, though, and thinks her mind is 
weak — weak as water ! If I had said I should not 
marry, you might be sure my mind was made up, and 
couldn’t be turned. Not that I ever did say such a 
thing. It is best to be careful of one’s words. 

January 7. What are we going to do without 
Thankful ? Affairs are approaching a crisis. She told 
me to-day she “didn’t care any great about James, but 
she should have to marry him to get rid of him.” 


A MYSTERY IN THE ATTIC. 


143 


Such an idea ! But she may not mean it. I find she 
doesn’t always mean what she says. But one thing is 
sure : she will leave us as soon as we can find another 
girl. How would poor mother feel ? And she so easy 
about us, trusting in the widow Works, and believing 
she truly hates “the whole race of mankind.” O, 
Thankful, Thankful! why don’t you stick to your 
appendix ? 

January 15, and in the midst of it a great excite- 
ment. Night before last, just as I was going to sleep, 
I heard a sudden noise outside my window, which is 
over the dining-room. It was the crunching of snow 
under a man’s boots. Who could be walking there at 
that time of night? It was ten o’clock, cloudy and 
starless, the snow falling fast. Why didn’t he go along 
the path to the side door, instead of wading through 
the deep snow up to the window? He must be a 
thief) trying to get into the dining-room. Perhaps he 
did not know the house, and thought we kept silver. 
Or perhaps he did know the house, and was aware that 
my father and Tom were both gone, and nobody left 
but two helpless women and a little child. I heard 
him come nearer and nearer, and actually try, very 
gently, to open one of the dining-room windows. 

I sprang out of bed, and crept into Thankful’s room 
over the kitchen. It was dark there, but I could see a 
ray of light from Thankful’s candle, as she was disap- 
pearing through the door that leads from the foot of 
the stairs into the kitchen. 

Presently I heard a low scream, and after that the 
sound of whispering. I know I did. I hurried on my 
clothes, determined to find out what it meant. By 


144 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


that time Thankful had stolen up stairs again. I 
rushed into her room in the greatest excitement; but 
there she sat on the bed, as calm as a clock, with her 
green wrapper on, and yawning, as if she had just 
waked up. 

“ What is it ? Who is it ? ” I whispered. 

“ What’s what ? ” said she, rubbing her eyes. 

Such duplicity ! I couldn’t and wouldn’t endure it. 
Did the woman think I was deaf, blind, and half 
witte d ? 

“ Thankful W orks,” said I, beside myself with rage, 
“you needn’t try to cheat me! James Works was 
breaking into this house, and you went down and sent 
him away. I guess you’ll think more of my * candid 
opinion ’ next time about scamps ! Don’t talk ! Don’t 
say a word ! I’ve heard, and I know ! and my father 
shall be informed this very night ! ” 

That finished the business. Thankful stared at me 
with strong displeasure, and said she, — 

“I wish you better manners. I was revolving it 
round in my mind whether I’d better tell you what 
had happened ; but now I certain shan’t.” 

And that was all I could get out of her, except that 
it wasn’t any of the Workses. Why did I speak so 
hastily? I told my father about it, but he said “Pooh, 
pooh! Only somebody come to return a borrowed 
coffee-pot or tea-spoon.” 

That’s a likely story ! 

January 17. I had settled down quietly, and nearly 
forgotten my excitement, till to-night I happened to 
come upon Thankful, as she was stealing down the 
attic stairs with a plate and cup in her hand. She hid 


A MYSTERY IN THE ATTIC. 


145 


them under her apron very suddenly, though she must 
have known I had seen them. I said not a word, but 
fixed my eyes steadily upon her. 

There is some one concealed in this house ; I feel it 
all over me. That accounts for the voices I thought I 
heard yesterday in the attic. There can be nothing 
wrong going on. Thankful is as true as steel, — about 
everything but marriage. I am not alarmed, but de- 
voured with curiosity. The attic door is locked, for I 
tried it. I thought I heard the shuffling of feet. 

Put your ear down close, Miss Tottenham. I sus- 
pect it’s Keller up there! Can anything have hap- 
pened that makes him want to hide ? I remember he 
didn’t whistle last November. If it is Keller, why 
didn’t he confide in his own sister Marian? But 
though he didn’t,' I’ll not betray him. I’ll give no 
hint of this to my father. 

It may not be Keller ; but whoever it is that is hid- 
den away among those old cobwebs, I’ll soon find out. 
Mrs. Works needn’t think anything clandestine can be 
carried on in this house without my sifting it to the 
bottom. 


10 


146 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XIX. 



BEARDING THE LION. 

LL alone in the attic of his father’s house, 
among lazy wasps and spinning spiders, sat 
m Keller Prescott eating an apple. Not daring 
to walk about lest he should make too much noise, he 
sat so very still that an enterprising spider had begun 
to attach him to the rafter, by what she considered a 
rope. 

It was a new thing for Keller to keep so quiet — a 
tedious thing. If he looked out of the dingy window, 
he saw only a white landscape ; if he shut his eyes, his 
mind made pictures he did not care to see. Here is 
one picture which tired him strangely. It was drawn 
from memory. 

Six youths, on a dark night, groping up hill, and into 
the barn of a venerable clergyman to steal his family 
carryall. What did they want of it ? O, it would be 
fun to wheel it down hill, and hide it in the hearse' 
house. Can’t live without fun, you know. Very dark 
night. No moon, no stars, and, luckily, no dog. Three 
of the youths go behind the carryall, and three take hold 
of the thills. “ By the way, boys, guess the parson 
keeps his sermons in here! About heavy enough, hey?” 
Going down hill, it rolls faster. Boys begin to chuckle, 


BEARDING THE LION. 


147 


when suddenly a whip cracks, and a voice from the car- 
ryall calls out, “ Thank you, young men. I’m having a 
very nice ride; but you may just turn around now, and 
haul me up hill ! ” Consternation dire ! It is the 
voice of Professor II. ! How and when he hid in the 
carryall nobody knows ; but there he is, and the boys, 
outwitted, turn about and haul him up in silence. 
“Crack goes the whip, round go the wheels;” was 
ever load like this ? 

Other pictures come up. One of them is painted on 
a chapel window with lampblack and molasses, and 
over it the ominous words, “ Suspension for this of- 
fence.” 

By the way, what an endless while from breakfast till 
dinner! Was Thankful ever coming with that fancy 
roast and mince pie ? Keller heard a step on the stairs, 
and started up eagerly. It was not Thankful. She 
made the boards creak under her slippered feet. This 
was Marian ; he knew her light, quick tread, and the 
click of her little heels. 

“ What does she want here ? ” thought he, crouching 
involuntarily. 

Marian tried the door; it was locked fast. She 
shook it, poked a shingle under it, muttered something, 
and clattered down again. 

“ She has gone to tell father the door is fastened,” 
thought Keller. “They’ll be up here with hammer 
and tongs ! If Miriam is on my track, it is all day 
with me ! ” 

For the next half hour the youth listened intently; 
but no sound was heard save the nibbling of rats in 
the walls. Then Thankful appeared with the dinner. 


148 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“What’s up?” exclaimed Keller, plucking at her 
sleeve. “ Marian’s been here and tried the door. Did 
you hear ? Did she tell ? ” 

“ No, not a word. You needn’t be a grain concerned ; 
her head is so full of everything she’ll never think of it 
again.” 

And setting the waiter on the top of a chest, and 
heaving a sigh, which was either to the memory of 
Josiah, or to Dr. Prescott’s “candid opinion” of James, 
Thankful stole gingerly down stairs. 

Keller moved an old rocking-chair towards the chest, 
and proceeded to enjoy his dinner. There was noth- 
ing so good for his spirits as eating. He removed the 
cover from the fancy roast, and the savory odor caused 
him to rub his hands with satisfaction. 

“ Thankful’s a brick.” 

He drew his napkin out of its ring, and spread it 
across his knees. In so doing a piece of paper flew 
out, and fluttered down to the floor. Keller took it up 
mechanically; it had been folded into the napkin by 
mistake, no doubt ; but there was so little to amuse him 
just now, that he could not let even a slip of paper pass 
without looking at it. It proved to be a three-cor- 
nered note addressed to himself. “ She’s caught me ; 
it’s all over with me,” groaned Keller. 

“You dear old boy; now don’t be frightened, and 
say, * She’s caught me ; it’s all over with me ; ’ for I 
shan't tell my father, Keller, I give you my word. I 
know you think I’m sharp-cornered, and you don’t 
love me as you do Pauline ; but I’ve been rolling my- 
self in sugar all winter, and you’ve no idea how sweet 
I have grown. 


BEARDING THE LION. 


149 


“ I’m going up at two o’clock. Let me into the attic, 
Keller, there’s a dear brother, and then you can tell me 
just what you’ve done that makes you want to hide 
your head. I’m sorry for you, and I love you, and I 
promise not to tell. Marian.” 

“ Whew ! This beats all ! ” said Keller, giving the 
rocking-chair a jerk which nearly upset the chest. 
“ Bless her heart, she shall come in. Besides, I couldn’t 
keep her out with a double-barrelled gun.” 

At two o’clock there was a second clattering of little 
boot-heels, and Keller opened the door before Marian 
had time to knock. A beam of sunshine seemed to 
dance into the dusty garret with her golden head and 
sparkling eyes. 

“ O, Keller, I don’t know what you’ve done ; but if 
you’ve committed murder I shall always love you just 
the same,” cried she, throwing herself, laughing and 
crying, into his arms. 

Keller returned the embrace with unusual fervor. 

“ How did you know I was up here, you little 
witch ? ” 

“La, Keller, a body doesn’t need to be a witch to 
hear people break into a house. I knew when Thank- 
ful let you in, but wasn’t sure ’twas you till you crept 
down stairs last night to see Benjie.” 

“ How did you know that, for gracious sake ? ” 

“ Why, you left this neck-tie, dear, the one I made 
last fall — dropped it on the bed. Haven’t you 
missed it ? ” 

“ There, Marian. I might have known you’d ferret 
me out,” said Keller, in a tone half admiring, half fretful. 
w I ought to have gone to you in the first place, only I 


150 


THE DOCTOR’S DA UGHTER. 


thought you wouldn’t understand how a fellow got in 
in such a fix.” 

“Does Robert know you’re here?” 

“No ; what business is it of his?” 

“ Keller, have you a pocket comb ? ” (The boy has 
no idea how wild he looks !) “ Put your head in my 

lap. There, you like my scraping as well as ever — 
don’t you ? ” 

“Yes,” said Keller, yielding to the soothing sensation 
gratefully. “ It does seem good to see somebody be- 
sides spiders. Tell you what, Marian — By the 
way — ” 

A long pause. 

“ O, dear,” thought Marian, “ what is it ? He looks 
so haggard and queer! I don’t want to know one 
word ! But here I am, the daughter of the house. I 
must! I must! Who is there but me to attend to 
him? He shan’t go to destruction if I can pull him 
back.” 

“You see, the fact is — ” 

“That’s right, Keller; tell me all about it, just as you 
would to mother or Pauline.” 

“Why, Marian, what’s come over you? I believe 
you have been rolled in sugar! I was just going to 
remark that I’m two hundred — dollars — in debt ! 
How does that sound for a young man of my age ? ” 

Marian started, and unconsciously drove the comb 
deep into Keller’s scalp. 

“You needn’t ask any questions. Goodness knows 
what’s become of the money; I don’t. That house- 
keeping with Brownie was plaguy expensive, and I lent 
several X’s; and it’s the fashion to treat; and I — well, 


BEARDING THE LION. 


151 


it got so steep I had to borrow of Thankful; and now 
here’s J ames W orks in my hair ! ” 

“James Works?” 

“Yes. Don’t dig so! Easy! He threatens to tell 
father, and sue him, too, if I don’t fork over.” 

“ Tell him yourself, Keller; that’s the best way. In- 
deed and indeed he ought to know.” 

“ I didn’t ask your advice — did I ? ” said the youth, 
sulkily. “ See here ; you promised, honor bright, you 
wouldn’t expose me.” 

“Am I, or am I not, to be trusted, Keller Pres- 
cott?” 

“ Don’t be touchy, sister. I’m a used-up man, and 
that’s what’s the matter. Father’d take my head off 
if he knew, and it’s nothing out of the way either, if 
you look at it in the right light.” 

“ Keller, dear, go on and tell the whole. I promise 
not to scold. Blush against my apron. I can’t see 
your face, you know.” 

Whereupon, blushing to order against the dainty 
white apron, Keller took courage to reveal all his 
“ scrapes,” beginning with the carryall, and winding up 
with the lampblack and molasses. 

“ Now, Marian, I was no worse than the other fel- 
lows. We all got tired of having the old prof dilate 
on the beauty of stained glass, and quote Milton so 
big. We agreed we’d give him some ‘dim religious 
light,’ if he wanted it; but it didn’t seem to suit; wasn’t 
dim enough perhaps ! And some of the sticky stuff 
got on my clothes, of course ; I’m always the scape- 
goat of the crowd. That brought me out, you see, and 
suspension was coming after me ; so I ran.” 


152 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“You didn’t run away ? ” 

“Well, no; came by boat.” 

“But why didn’t the faculty write to yOur father 
about it ? ” 

“ Shouldn’t wonder if they did. Do you see this 
letter? Thankful whipped it out of the post-office. 
She’s a trump. All I have against her is her hating 
mankind so hard that she’s going to marry James 
Works.” 

“But, Keller, I don’t see yet; I don’t understand. 
You can’t exj^ect to live always up here in this attic?” 

“No, ma'am. I intend to go to sea.” 

“ To sea ? ” 

“Yes, with Captain Rush. You know he told me 
last fall he’d take me round the world for nothing.” 

“O, Keller! Keller!” 

“ He starts tenth of next month. I wrote him 
day before yesterday, and he says, ‘ All right. Come 
ahead.”’ 

“ Keller, do please stop joking.” 

“Joking, Marian? Why, it’s dead earnest. What’s 
the use for a fellow to study his eyes out, and then be 
suspended by the hair of the head ? I’d have gone to 
sea long ago, if it hadn’t been for making a fuss in the 
family.” 

“Have you thought of mother, Keller, poor dear 
mother?” 

Keller writhed uneasily. 

“ That’s all that bothers me,” said he in a helpless 
tone. “ But she won’t hear of it for a long time, and 
then I shall write the whole story. I think mother 
will be reasonable. It’s a great chance for me, Mariaa 


BEARDING THE LION . 


153 


If I have a share in buying cotton, as the captain prom' 
ises, why, I can come back and pay off my debts, and 
be in a fair way to set up for myself in business, and 
make you all rich.” 

In spite of her vivid imagination, Marian had a 
shrewd, practical little head of her own, and no great 
patience with Keller’s vagaries. A sarcastic speech 
rose to her lips, but she sent it back instantly. 

“I hope I shall have sense enough to hold my 
tongue,” thought she. 

“But, Keller, if you meant to sail with Captain Rush, 
why didn’t you go straight to Yarmouth? What 
made you come home at all?” 

“I had a kind of hankering to see the old place 
again! and besides, I wanted to get some of my 
traps.” 

“Hark, Keller; there’s Thankful calling: Robert 
and Judith have come to ride with me. I’ll be up 
again this evening, and we’ll talk more. Dear me ! I 
don’t know at all what I’m about. Seems as if I must 
speak right out to Rob and Jude, and tell the whole 
story : but then I have faith to believe I shan’t.” 

Keller had faith to believe it too. Hadn’t he Mar- 
ian’s word? 

“Don’t forget to come up to-night,” said he, wist- 
fully. “Now you’ve once been up, I know I can’t 
stand it alone.” 

“Have you had bad news from your mother?” 
asked Judith, as the three rode abreast through the 
wide street. Robert said nothing, but eyed Marian’s 
troubled face inquiringly. 

“You’re the lynxest-eyed people,” said she, shaking 


154 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


her riding-whip. “No ; mamma gains constantly. Dr. 
W are is failing ; but I’ll not be such a hypocrite as to 
pretend that’s what ails me. I hoped you wouldn’t 
notice anything. Please don’t ask me.” 

Judith reached out her left hand towards her friend 
with an impulse of sympathy; but Robert shook his 
head at her, and she drew it away again. 

With that fine tact which was part of his common 
sense, he perceived that Marian wished to be let alone, 
that her troubles would not bear discussion. He be- 
gan to talk to Judith about the Reading Circle, of 
which both the girls were now honorable members ; 
then about Marian’s three-legged horse, for Zephyr’s 
lameness was becoming so noticeable that the fact 
could no longer be disguised. 

Marian caught a word here and there, but it did not 
break up the strong under-current of her thoughts. 

“ Bear ye one another’s burdens. I’ll do it if it kills 
me. Those government bonds are my own. If I 
choose to take tliem and pay Thankful, my father has 
no right to complain. Nor aunt Hinsdale either. 
Mother would be glad — dear mother! It’s for her 
sake. It’s for her sake first, and then for all our sakes. 
He’s so afraid of my father! Judgment is what he 
lacks ; but then we must take him as he is. I did not 
mean to touch those bonds. It is so pleasant to think 
they are there in the secret drawer of my writing-desk. 
Aunt Hinsdale called them my ‘marriage portion.’ 
That’s nonsense; still it’s pleasant to think they are 
there. I’ve built so many air-castles out of them — 
paper castles. I thought if anything happened to my 
father, and he seemed low about his business, I should 


BEARDING THE LION . 


155 


just slip my arms round his neck and say, ‘ O, papa, 
dear, what’s mine is yours. Here are those old bonds ; 
they’re aching for you to take them.’ And then he 
would object, and seem very much touched. The 
blessed man ! As if his own daughter could do too 
much for him. And I should insist, and it would end 
in my sitting on his knee and his saying, ‘My little 
daughter has put a new heart into me. What should 
I have done without my little daughter?’ 

“But now — O, well, it is very different. I think 
myself it would have been better for Keller if he had 
come home and worked on that ‘ heater-piece,’ as aunt 
Filura proposed. What does make boys behave so I 
can’t understand. And very likely, if I give him the 
money, he’ll do the same thing right over again, or per- 
haps go to sea in spite of it; slip right through my 
fingers. He’s too proud to be suspended. And as for 
James Works, he ought to be ashamed to press him so. 
I’d wait till I was married to a woman before I went 
to collecting her debts ! 

“O, dear! I wish I dared ask somebody what to 
do. — Robert,” said she, suddenly looking up to the 
sky, where the pale moon stood blinking in the face of 
the sun, “do you believe James Works ever felt the 
least interest in that moon after he was big enough to 
know it wasn’t a silver dollar ? ” 

Robert turned around with a smile. It was nothing 
new for Marian to break in at right angles with some 
whimsical remark. 

“ Does Thankful really mean to marry that man ? ” 
said he. “ Then all I have to say is, Cupid’s darts have 
hit her in two places — the head as well as the heart/ 


156 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


Marian laughed. 

“Yes, I thought something ailed her brain when she 
took to washing the barn. The dear old soul would 
have been married last week, only she doesn’t like to 
leave us till Brooksey Waters can come and take her 
place.” 

“Brooksey Waters won’t come,” said Judith; “or, 
if she does, ’twill only be for a few weeks, ‘just to ac- 
commodate.’ I do pity you, Marian. — Why, as true as 
you live, I’ve left my scarf ; my throat will be sore. 
Robert, you’ll have to ride home and get it.” 

“ That’s always the way,” thought Marian, as Robert 
the obedient turned his horse, and the girls followed. 
“ She doesn’t even have to say ‘ please.’ I might have 
yards of sore throat, but I couldn’t start Keller without 
what Miss O’Neil calls ‘moral persuasion.’ He’s not 
the brother Robert is ; yet how much he needs some- 
body to take care of him! Now is the time when I 
must decide for myself what to do. One way is to let 
Keller alone, and the other is to interfere, and perhaps 
not keep him from going to sea, either. Mother would 
say, ‘Just think which way you suppose you will 
please God, and do that.’ Yes, and what could please 
him better than the Golden Rule? , Is it any of my 
business whether a thing does good or not, if it’s 
only my duty to do it ? I haven’t the future to take 
care of. The Golden Rule it is, and no more words 
about it.” 

Aunt Esther ran out with a pair of sheep-shears in 
one hand, and a basket of rags in the other. 

“ Well, I’m glad you had sense enough to come back 
for your comforter, Judy. For my part, I don’t see as 


BEARDING THE LION \ 


157 


these rides do you a mite o’ good, but the doctors have 
a right to their opinion, I suppose. I should set you 
to washing dishes ; but then that’s work, and of course 
you’re dead set against work.” 

Sensitive J udith dropped her eyes in a shame-faced 
•way; but Marian flashed back a look of defiance, and 
sat up wonderfully prim. It was in her to give aunt 
Esther a piece of her mind ; but she forbore, and 
merely said to Robert, when he returned with the 
scarf, — 

“Let’s go by Miss O’Neil’s. I should like to have 
her come out and scold ! ” 

If this was a home-thrust, aunt Esther was not 
aware of it ; for she called after them, — 

“Judy, sit up straight now. Marian, twitch her 
shoulders back. There’s no sense in her doubling 
into a ball.” 

Marian saw there were tears on Judith’s cheeks, and 
her whole soul was stirred against the woman who 
could make that dear girl cry. For the rest of the 
ride, having settled her own knotty questions about 
Keller, she was prepared to entertain her friends, and 
enjoy herself. The art of having a good time, and 
“waking up Judith,” she had reduced to a science. 
What if she did laugh too loud sometimes, and go off* 
in little explosions of ecstasy over nothing particular ? 
There can’t be too much innocent fun in the world. 
Don’t shake your heads, Mr. Icicle and Madam 
Grundy. If you freeze up that bubbling spring of 
gayety in a young girl’s heart, you are as cruel as 
the untimely frost that nips the springing corn. 


158 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


CHAPTER XX. 


A SPRING FRESHET. 


Miss Tottenham. 

February 22. 

HAVE been rather embarrassed lately, Miss 



Tottenham, not quite knowing what to say to 


you. I did mention in January that I heard 


somebody breaking into the house, and thought it was 
Keller; but things have transpired, since that, which 
make it necessary for me to hold my tongue. Whether 
it was Keller or not, I am pledged to secrecy. 

I suppose, though, there is no harm in my saying he 
spent a month at home. It was understood that he 
was not very well. My father, who was remarkably 
pitiful and kind, went to Exeter, and had some conver- 
sation with the faculty ; and it seemed to have a good 
effect on Keller’s health, for he went back again after- 
wards, and has studied like a hero. Pitkin Jones said 
he heard that Keller talked of running away to sea ; 
but Pitkin is always full of gossip. 

One thing I must record : Keller has taken to loving 
me at a furious rate. He says I’m an angel ! O, ho ! 
Then my wings must have grown out in one day ! He 
never saw a feather on me before ! 

Dear old Thankful has gone to fill a vacancy ; she 


A SPRING FRESHET. 


159 


has married that old widower, James Works. Fare- 
well to Thankful the fair, and Jamie the brave. I am 
afraid Thankful didn’t feel quite easy in her mind, or 
she wouldn’t have chanted that doleful hymn about 
“The F’erce North Wind” so much. It seems as if 
the kitchen is full of it. Aunt Esther says she “feels 
ugly for Mrs. Works;” that means she pities her. So 
do I ; but I pity myself more. Brooksey Waters came 
a few days “ to accommodate ; ” but her two half-sisters 
were taken down with measles, and she left, no more 
to return. 

Then I had that mulatto woman with straight false 
hair, Eunice Parsons. She makes me think of a mo- 
lasses custard with nutmeg on it. Freckled, Miss Tot- 
tenham; a freckled mulatto. She staid long enough 
to break our soup-tureen, and get a silver spoon chewed 
up in the pigs’ pail ; then the rheumatism carried her 
off to Poonoosac. 

We wanted Betsey Davis, but she said she “under- 
stood Dr. Prescott didn’t have widow Works eat with 
the family.” I told her Mrs. Works wasn’t willing to 
eat with the family, and that was all the reason she 
didn’t do it. But Betsey tossed her head, and said I’d 
“ better ask Susan Kittridge,” which I think was really 
malicious of Betsey, for Susan stood ready to come ; 
and of all the dirty creatures ! Why, she turned the 
kitchen sink into a perfect sink of iniquity, and you 
couldn’t tell the dish-cloth from the mop-rag. If mother 
or Pauline had had the faintest idea what we’ve suf- 
fered, they’d have sent home some coolies. But my 
father has charged me never to write of our domestic 
trials. Little affairs he calls them. Much he knows 


160 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


about it ! It is such a privilege to have been bom a 
man ! How much wear and tear it saves ! None of 
the responsibilities of life. Nothing to worry you. 
And here am I, with blisters on both hands, and my 
left thumb half cut off by a bread-knife. 

Tom went for aunt Filura, and she’ll stay till my 
wounds are healed. What will turn up next, dear 
knows. As for cooking, I don’t understand anything 
thoroughly but hasty pudding; and that I’m apt to 
make lumpy. 

March, having come in like a lion, was going out 
like a tiger. On the two last days of the month a 
heavy rain fell, and was beaten from east to west by a 
roaring wind. Dr. Prescott had just finished his morn- 
ing calls, and was urging his horse homeward, as fast 
as he dared, over the black and white road, — black 
with icy mud, and white with whited sepulchres of 
enow, which broke through and let him in. Impossible 
to hold an umbrella against this tempest, which, even 
on its second day, showed no signs of abatement. The 
good doctor bowed his head to the gale, inwardly 
thankful that it was not a sickly season, and he might 
hope to toast his feet in lazy enjoyment at home. 

But Marian was at the bay-window, watching for 
him. 

“ I’m so glad you’ve come, papa ! ” she cried, holding 
the side-door open far enough to look out, and shout- 
ing the words explosively, to be heard above the 
storm. “Mr. Dicky, Tom’s father, has had a fall. 
Sent an hour ago. But do come in and have your 
dinner first.” 


A SPRING FRESHET. 


161 


Dr. Prescott staid a moment to drive Don Pedro, 
under shelter, then hurried into the dining-room. 

“ Tom is just wild about his father,” said Marian, 
bringing in the steak and potatoes from the warming- 
oven. “ He begged so hard for aunt Filura to go, that 
she got right into Mr. Applebee’s wagon and went. 
Mr. Applebee was the man that came. He said Mr. 
Dickey fell from the upper scaffold, and has been insen- 
sible ever since. And there is poor Mrs. Dickey wring 
ing her hands, and flying round and round. Tom 
couldn’t see any other way but he must take aunt 
Filura home with him.” 

“Yes,” said the doctor, filling his plate, “the people 
in that neighborhood consult aunt Filura more than 
they do their Bibles. She is a person that looks on life 
from upper windows, and such persons always have 
great influence.” 

“Upper windows, papa? O, the windows next 
heaven. Well, she does take you right up on wings, 
somehow. You feel as if your troubles weren’t of so 
much consequence as you supposed. I can’t express 
it ; but I know how she comforted us when we thought 
Keller was married. She sees God right behind every- 
thing; she doesn’t believe there are such things as ac- 
cidents, you know.” 

“Neither do I, Marian. 

‘ It chanced; Eternal God that chance did guide.’ 

Don’t forget that, my daughter, come what will. 
Now kiss me, and good by. No, thank you; I can’t 
stay for the pudding. Two o’clock. Let us see. It will 
be lonely for you and little brother, this afternoon, in 
the storm. I may not get home before dark, and if 
11 


162 THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 

not, you’d better speak to Robert, when he brings the 
mail, and ask him to study here this evening.” 

“O, ho, who’s scat?” said Benjie, looking up from 
his plate, in which he was floating a raft of bread on a 
small pond of sirup. 

“Not our youngest, surely,” said his father, laugh' 
ing. “ Good by, my children.” 

And in another moment Dr. Prescott was out again 
in the wildness of the storm; but now the wind had 
changed, and was blowing from north to south, drop- 
ping its voice occasionally, as if it had half a mind to 
give up the contest, then raging again with renewed 
force. 

“It will clear away before midnight,” thought the 
doctor, as he walked his horse over the trembling 
bridge. “ Glad of that. A spring freshet would give 
these timbers a heavy strain.” 

Then driving on up the hill, he reflected that the ice 
was likely to “ go out weak ” this year, and there was 
not as much danger as usual of the old bridge. But 
all the while the rain was falling steadily. Marian, 
alone with Benjie, found the afternoon dull. Night set 
in, and her father had not returned. That was nothing 
very strange; but where was Robert, that he did not 
come with the mail? 

She kept Benjie awake long after his usual bedtime, 
because she dreaded the lonesome hush which would 
creep over the hoiise when he should be asleep. She 
sent him for apples, and he came back shouting 
gleefully, — 

“Cellar’s afloat! Tubs a-swimming!” 


A SPRING FRESHET. 


163 


“ Is it possible ? W ell, if we can’t have apples, little 
brother, we’ll have something better.” 

So they boiled molasses candy in a basin over the 
coals, and little brother helped pull it with his awkward 
fingers, leaving sticky traces on his face and jacket. 
Then they played at backgammon, a long game, for 
Benjie was learning, and could count but slowly. But 
still Robert did not come. 

The clock struck nine. Benjie curled down upon th© 
rug, to listen to the story of Jack and the Beanstalk, 
and in two minutes was fast asleep. Marian put more 
wood on the fire, choosing beech sticks because they 
would crackle sociably, and went to the window to look 
out. Nothing but blackness. Over the gate the elm 
tree writhed like a distracted goblin ; she could fancy 
it wringing its hands. 

She dropped the curtain, laid Benjie on the sofa, and 
came back to her seat in her mother’s low rocking- 
chair. The mail was probably delayed by the storm. 
Robert would be in presently. He never failed to call 
on his way from the post-office. There was no sense in 
being nervous ; but the wildness without and the still- 
ness within combined to be very oppressive. 

“ Cellar’s afloat. Tubs a-swimming.” 

Why, it must be a freshet. Marian hated the dull, 
monotonous sound of the water pouring into the cis- 
tern. It called to mind the ocean, which roared between 
her mother and home, and the familiar vase on the 
mantel — an alabaster hand holding up a shell — made 
her shudder, as if it were her mother’s hand rising 
from the sea. 

The clock struck ten. It was clear that Robert wa* 


164 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


not coming: he never did come as late as ten. Marian 
stirred the fire, and wrapping herself in a shawl, lay 
down beside Benjie on the wide, old-fashioned sofa. 
Not that she felt sleepy; but in the dreary emptiness 
of the room, it was a comfort to have the little fellow 
in her arms. She would not put him in bed yet. Her 
father would be sure to come soon. Strange what had 
kept Robert; he didn’t usually mind storms. But 
while she waited and wondered, that “little sprite from 
the land of Nowhere” glided in and perched upon her 
eyelids. She no longer heard the wind, though it still 
shook the house ; nor the clock, though it never ceased 
to pace off the time with slow strides. 

It struck eleven, then twelve. The fire burned low. 
A brand rolled out upon the hearth, and charred a 
small hole in the rug. Still Marian slept. Why not? 
What signal of danger could come to her dulled ears 
through those thick, close-drawn curtains ? 

Suddenly there fell a great calm. The North Wind 
stopped and held his breath. It may have been for 
horror at the ruin he had wrought ; it may have been 
to listen to the hoarse roar of many waters. The river, 
which had been only little Basset yesterday, sleeping 
under a counterpane of snow, had swollen now to mon- 
strous size, and was rushing headlong over his banks. 
On, on with the might of a conqueror, gathering force 
as he goes, the mad river dashes and takes to himself 
all that comes in his way. Great sheets of ice from 
far up stream he seizes, tears rudely, and piles against 
the piers of the bridge, tier above tier. Now, like the 
wind, Basset stops and holds his breath. He has de- 


A SPRING FRESHET. 


165 


feated himself, and built up a wall of frozen masonry 
which he cannot pass over. 

But a powerful reenforcement arrives. Medumpscott 
stream, two miles away, breaks through a strong dam, 
and hurries to the rescue. Now for a revel. Great 
logs, and shattered mills, and up-torn trees batter 
against the frozen wall, and it gives way. The pas- 
sage is clear now for Basset, the conqueror, the demon. 
He and Medumpscott rush thundering down stream, 
bearing their spoils, and among them the poor old 
tremulous bridge. 

Boom ! Crash ! They go, shrieking, — 

“Out of our way! It’s anight of revel! The law 
can’t touch running water. Follow us — if — you — 
dare!” 


166 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


CHAPTER XXL 


UPPER WINDOWS. 



^I^ARIAN started up broad awake, every nerve 
vibrating, as if from an electric shock. In 
spite of the muffling curtains, a roar like Ni- 
agara filled the room. She threw up the window and 


looked out. 

It was a dream, and she knew it. In place of the 
snow-covered river, she saw a broad sea of icebergs, 
and dancing on the icebergs, like a great wooden toy, 
the Quinnebasset bridge. A dream? O, yes. The 
Atlantic Ocean never rolled up to the door-yard before. 
Strange she couldn’t wake ! Strange the moon should 
be there. She certainly knew that moon, staring 
through the clouds with a cold face. 

A feeling of terror seized her, such as she always 
had when Thankful chanted “The Last Days” over 
the kitchen stove in the early winter mornings. 


“ When the f’erce North Wind, 
With his airy forces, 

Stirs up the Baltic 
To a foaming fury, 

And the red lightning, 

With a storm of hail, 

Comes hurling — amain — down.’" 


UPPER WINDOWS. 


167 


How often Marian had begged her to stop that dread- 
ful chant ! And now the whole world was roaring it. 
Look ! the fence at the foot of the garden was quite 
under water. The flood was coming nearer. Marian 
could see it creeping up the south slope in the door- 
yard, faster, faster. There was but one alternative — 
to rush to the hill behind the house, or drown. 

“ O, Benjie, Benjie, wake up ! ” cried she, shaking 
him frantically. 

“ Let me ’lone,” growled Benjie, always savage when 
aroused in the night. 

“ But you must get up, Benjie, little brother. We’re 
going to be drowrfed ! Do you hear ? ” 

Benjie was fast asleep again. 

“ What shall I, shall I do ? ” groaned the poor 
sister. 

Seizing him in her arms, she half led, half dragged 
him to the west door, and out on the porch. 

Horror of horrors ! A stream came “rushing amain 
down ” through the valley, cutting them off from the 
hill. Marian clutched the porch railing in blank dis- 
may, and a blind dizziness came over her. Benjie, 
awake at lasL clung to her waist, moaning, “ Mamie, 
Mamie!” too frightened to cry. 

The situation was appalling enough to terrify stouter 
hearts than Mamie’s and little brother’s. Dr. Pres- 
cott’s house stood on a narrow ridge, somewhat higher 
than the surrounding intervale. This ridge made a 
sudden slope to the valley, a few rods up the river ; 
and it was here that the freshet divided, to unite again 
a little below at another slope. Thus the house was 


168 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


entirely cut off from the high land, and the water gairn 
ing on every side. 

“Papa ’n’ aunt Flura no business to gone off and left 
us,” wailed Benjie, his face showing very white through 
the streaks of candy. “Why don’t somebody see 
to us ? ” 

The frightened clinging of the little arms and the 
despair in the young voice impelled Marian to answer, 
with a calmness which surprised herself, — 

“ Hush, little brother. God is right here. Don’t be 
afraid.” 

“ O, so he is,” murmured Benjie, reassured. “ I 
wouldn’t wonder if he should send along a boat.” 

“ Don’t talk, dear ; I want to think. Hark ! There 
is poor Zephyr neighing in the stable. If I go to her 
and let her out, perhaps she can swim. Benjie, are you 
willing I should go, and won’t you try to follow ? ” 

“ I don’t want to stay all ’lone.” 

“ But I told you, little brother, God is here. And 
I’ve just thought of something for you to do. You can 
go up stairs and ring the big dinner-bell out of the win- 
dow. Somebody will hear it, and know we’re in trou- 
ble, and come for us, perhaps.” 

“ Yes, I’ll go,” said Benjie, bravely. 

Marian threw a cloak over her head, for her teeth 
were chattering with cold and terror, and rushing to 
the barn, tried to push back the large door in front. 
She could not move it. Swollen by the rain, it stuck 
fast in its groove. The side door which led directly to 
the horse-stalls was a foot lower, and the flood was 
already above the threshold. If Marian had been rash 
in leaving the house, there was no time for shrinking 


UPPER WINDOWS . 


169 


now. She lifted the latch, and groped her way to 
Zephyr’s crib. The floor of the stable was an inclined 
plane, and the poor beast had crowded herself into the 
upper corner ; but the waters were just reaching there. 
Marian could feel them creeping higher and higher 
above her feet. Quite forgetting the red cow next 
door, though she lowed lustily, Marian tugged at the 
halter, which Zephyr, in her frenzy, had drawn tight 
about her neck. It seemed as if the knot would never 
unloose; and, while Marian worked at it, the loud 
ding-dong from the chamber window ceased; Benjie 
had thrown down the dinner-bell in despair. Above 
the roaring of the tide she could hear his frightened 

cry, — 

“ Mamie, Mamie, O, do come, Mamie.” 

“ Coming, Benjie.” 

At the last desperate twitch the knot gave way. 
Marian seized Zephyr by the mane, and walking 
through the ice-cold water, led her straight up to the 
porch steps. Not till then did it occur to her to won- 
der if she had done a wise thing. Might not Zephyr 
have been safer in the stable ? 

At any rate, if the thing had not been done, she 
could not have attempted it now. She had improved 
the last moment, and incurred a foolish risk. A little 
later, and the strong current must have overpowered 
both her and the horse. Moment by moment the al- 
ready narrow strip of land on which the house stood 
was growing narrower still. Marian shuddered 
as she recalled the story of the great freshet of 
1832, which had completely deluged this same inter- 
vale, and carried off the cottage where Thankful W orks 


170 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


was born. Keller once said Thankful had caught 
the freshet in her eyes, and then they had both 
laughed. Should she ever laugh again ? If God saw 
and knew, why did he not send help ? A boat, a raft, 
a live human being ? O, it was very strange. 

Now the waters had reached the lower edge of the 
porch. A poor dead lamb, separated from its ghastly 
flock by the press of ice, was hurled against the step. 
Farther out in the stream Marian saw a horse floating 
down, with a sleigh dragging at his heels. 

For the first time it flashed upon her that her father 
might be drowned ! She remembered there were two 
bridges this side of the Wix neighborhood. With a 
white, fixed face she drew Benjie into the house, and 
would have drawn Zephyr also; but the half crazed 
animal paced snorting up and down the porch, and as 
the water broke over it, plunged, or was borne, out into 
the stream. 

Marian saw her go without a regret. It had come 
to that. Zephyr must drown ; but so must she and 
Benjie. God did not care. They need not have 
drowned if papa had been at home to foresee the dan- 
ger. If Mr. Dickey hadn’t fallen ! If Tom hadn’t gone 
and taken aunt Filura ! If Robert had only come in, as 
he had always done before ! Such a tangle of IFS ! 
God did not care. 

Hush! Yes, he did care. And like a ray of light 
flashed up that golden line of Spenser, — 

“ It chanced; Eternal God that chance did guide.” 

“ Yes, God does care. It isn’t a tangle of ifs. He 
never forgot the little sparrows; he can’t forget his 



MARIAN AND BENJIE. Page 171, 
















































r* 















UPPER WINDOWS. 


171 


children. If we drown, it is his will. It will be right, 
for it is his will.” 

The water was rushing in under the doors, up 
through the carpet. 

“ Benjie, dear, O, little Benjie ,” said Marian, pressing 
him close. “Don’t grieve any more. Somebody will 
think of us ; somebody will come.” 

“ They must’ve heard the bell,” said Benjie, sobbing 
tears of sweetened water. “I rang, n’ I rang, n’ 1 
rung. Folks in Boston heard; couldn’t help it, I rung 
so hard.” 

“ Benjie, we must go up stairs ; the water is over our 
ankles. We won’t drown till the last minute; we’ll 
keep a brave heart, little brother. We know who 
is with us, and never forgets us.” 

The tone was almost joyful. Marian seemed sud- 
denly exalted above herself, as persons of her tempera- 
ment often are exalted in the presence of danger. An 
unnatural light beamed in her eyes as she tripped up 
stairs ; but it was the light of a soul at peace. 

“ Now we’ll look on life from upper windows,” said 
she, throwing up the sash. “ W e’re above the world, 
Benjie. We understand how aunt Filura feels!” 

Lights were gleaming from all the neighboring 
houses, making intersecting paths of flame upon the 
moving sea. It seemed as if the river were changed 
into a vast harbor of illuminated ships. Or one might 
fancy that Quinn ebasset had been spirited away, and a 
baby V enice put in her place. 

A noisy little V enice ; for now the bells began to 
ring, as they had not rung before since Deacon Jud- 
kins’s bam was burned, and the brindled cow in it. 


172 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


Marian could dimly see men running down the street^ 
and hear them calling to one another. The sight of 
human beings in the outer world gave her a thrill of 
courage which shook her unearthly calmness. 

“ Help ! Help ! ” she shouted, while Benjie screamed, 
“ Fire ! Fire ! ” 

Nobody heard, nobody answered. 

Inch by inch the water was creeping up the stairs. By 
the light of the hanging lamp in the hall below, Marian 
could see it clearly, and on its surface familiar objects 
it had picked up in its course. The backgammon- 
board sailed quietly over the sitting-room threshold, in 
company with a charred brand from the hearth, and one 
of Benjie’ s boots. A strange fleet. 

The ice without beat against the house with a dull 
click. Chilled to the heart, courage waning, Marian 
sank down upon the broad window-seat with Benjie on 
her lap, while the cat mewed and rubbed against her 
feet. Then came a crashing of glass down stairs. The 
flood was breaking into the lower windows. Benjie 
screamed. 

“Darling, don’t cry,” said Marian, with trembling 
faith. “You know that God cares for the little spar- 
rows.” 

“Yes, he used to; but he don’t care a thing about 
my martins,” sobbed Benjie, as the martin-house was 
borne swiftly past, its slender pole snapped by the 
rushing ice. “ Martins are just as good as sparrows ; 
but they won’t have any house to go to next sum- 
mer.” 

Marian did not answer. She only drew her little 


UPPER WINDOWS. 


173 


brother close to her heart, and waited. For what? 
God knew. 

A heavy cloud sailed across the moon. She could 
not see the river bank, except where its outline was 
pricked out here and there by a point of light. The 
hall lamp burned low; but it showed the water steal- 
ing cruelly up the staircase. Marian watched it with a 
strange fascination, while Benjie clung to her with a 
clasp that was absolute pain. 

“ Dr. Prescott ! Marian ! ” 

The voice came to her from the darkness without. 
She sprang up with a joyful cry, — 

“ O, Robert, I thought you would come ! Where 
are you? I can’t see.” 

“Here, under the window. How many are there in 
the house ? ” 

“Only Benjie and I. Where is my father?” 

“Can you reach Benjie down to me? No, you 
can’t ; it’s too far. Go across to your room. Take the 
light. Get out on the roof of the porch. We’ll row 
round and take you off.” 

The boat with its two misty figures glided out of 
sight. Marian ran first into her father’s room, where 
a candlestick, with matches in its broad tray, stood 
on the table by the bedside, as it had stood ever since 
she could remember; for the good doctor never lay 
down to rest without being prepared to rise at a mo- 
ment’s warning. Marian struck a light, and placing 
the candlestick upon the bureau in her own room, 
opened the window over the porch, and called, 
“ Robert.” He had not come. The chilling wind 
blew in, and with the strange presence of mind, which 


174 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


she thought at the time was not at all like herself, she 
remembered that Benjie’s cap and overcoat were in the 
hall closet down stairs ; but she could get him a shawl 
out of her own wardrobe. 

“Never mind, little brother; we’ll be warm, some- 
how,” said she, throwing the shawl over his head, and 
pinning it under his chin baby-fashion. 

The boat had come at last. She heard the splash- 
ing of oars, and climbed out upon the slippery roof of 
the porch, which shook beneath her from the swift tor- 
rent. Next came Benjie in his clumsy drapery, and 
last of all the cat. 

“ Move cautiously, for Heaven’s sake, Marian,” cried 
Robert; “I cannot leave the boat to help you. Be 
cool, and there’s no danger.” 

Tightly grasping Benjie’s hand, fully conscious 
that a careless step might slide them both into the 
water, Marian worked her slow way down the slope. 
In the middle of the short journey Benjie’s courage 
failed. 

“ I’m scat, Mamie ; I’m awful scat ! Don’t let’s go. 
Do come back.” 

He tugged at her dress in a sort of fury. Marian 
felt her insecure grasp of the wet shingles giving way. 
A mortal terror seized her. 

“ I will go away and leave you alone, Benjie,” said 
Robert, sternly, “if you cry any more. Let go Mamie’s 
dress. Here, Marian, steady yourself by this.” 

And he reached up to her the blade of an oar, hold- 
ing the handle firmly in his right hand, while with 
his left oar he fought back the flood. A moment 


UPPER WINDOWS. 


175 


longer, and Marian, regaining her footing, had dragged 
Benjie to the eaves. 

“ The water-spout is strong. Cling to it, Marian.” 

She did so, while Benjie clung to her. Robert 
quickly laid down the oars, and stood up on the middle 
seat of the boat. 

“Hold her steady, Mr. Nason,” said he. “Now, 
Benjie, drop into my arms. I won’t let you fall.” 

The little fellow shrank back ; but Marian, letting go 
the water-spout, turned and reached him down to 
Robert, who stowed him away in the bottom of the 
boat. 

“Now, Marian.” 

And she slid down into Robert’s arms. 

“Safe, safe,” thought she, with an exultant thrill. 
« I thought God meant it to be so ; but I wasn’t sure.” 


176 


THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER . 


CHAPTER XXII. 



NO HEAD. 

S Robert and Mr. Nason rowed the boat np 
the swift current, Marian sat in shivering si-, 
lence, thinking how near she and Benjie had 
been to the upper world. For the twinkling of an eye 
she imagined how beautiful it would have been if she 
had gone with little brother in her arms. Not that 
she had the least desire to die ; only when one has to 
leave this lovely world, it must be sweet to go with 
friends. But O, how glad she was to find herself 
alive ! 

The two men worked hard to push back the logs 
and blocks of ice. “ If here ain’t a piece of Carter’s 
grist-mill! I believe to my soul Seven-Mile Brook 
has overflowed,” said Mr. Nason. “This beats all.” 
As if anything could surprise him on such a night as 
this. Marian twisted the meaning of the words to suit 
her own wild fancy. 

“ Have I come to the place ‘ where the brook and 
river meet’?” thought she. “Yes, I’m almost there. 
I never shall be a child any more. I’ve felt all winter 
that I was coming to it. Hear the oars dip and scrape. 
Now, when we touch dry land, I shall begin to be a 
woman. 


NO HEAD. 


177 


*1 know what it means to be a woman. It means 
to forget yourself, and take care of other people. It 
means to make your father happy ; to cherish your 
brother Benjie; to make home just as beautiful as you 
can without your mother; not to mind when you bum 
your fingers ; not to cry even when your house slips 
from under your feet, and floats down river ; not to be 
flimsy. 

“ I see it all now like a picture. Every time I do 
my duty heartily, it makes a bright spot in my char- 
acter ; but the spots are few and far between, like 
those little points of light on the shore. Can’t I see ? 
Don’t I know ? ” 

The boat stopped with a shock which made it reel 
from side to side. Benjie was first drawn out, with 
his little feet tangled in the shawl fringe. 

“Didn’t know we’s going to Miss ErNeil’s,” he mut- 
tered, angrily. 

But there they were. It was the first dry land. 
The flood had come up to the little grass-plot which 
she cut for her cat, and there it was stayed. A crowd 
of people were gathered. Miriam saw no one but her 
father. He was alive, he was safe, holding out his 
arms to her and little brother with speechless gratitude. 
There were tears in many eyes, but Miss O’Neil was 
the first to break silence. Any mark of affection was 
sure to set the friendless creature to scolding; for, as 
she virtuously declared, she “ was brought up never to 
kiss.” 

“ Well, Miriam Linscott, I should think this was 
pretty works. You’re the only one in town that needed 
the boat. I guess you don’t know what a job it wai 

12 


178 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


to pry it out of the ice. Why didn’t you leave the 
house when you saw it was beginning to rain ? ” 

I am ashamed to say that, in spite of herself, Marian 
relt that same scornful dislike creeping over her, which 
she always did feel whenever Miss O’Neil opened her 
mouth. So near death as the child had just been, so 
full of sublime thoughts, it is nevertheless true that at 
this moment she felt an impulse, to seize the irritating 
old lady and give her a shaking. Everybody began 
to talk at once. “Wasn’t it tough work, Robert ? ” 
“ How did you get them out ? ” “ Is the water up to 

the second story ? ” “ How did you feel, Marian ? ” 

“ What did you do ? ” 

The young girl could not speak. She turned around 
to Robert, remembering she had not thanked him yet ; 
but the words would not come. 

There was, as she soon found, a general panic. Most 
of the villagers had packed all their furniture, and car- 
ried it into their chambers. She wondered she had 
never thought of that. Everybody had been pre- 
pared ; still the doctor’s house was the only one in 
town which had been actually flooded. 

“ It’s my opinion that the water will stop where it is, 
and there won’t be any more damage,” said Mr. Nason. 

“ You don’t know anything about the foreknowledge 
of God,” returned Miss O’Neil, with a reproving scowl. 

Scarcely knowing what she did, Marian found her- 
self walking between her father and Mr. Loring to- 
wards Mr. Willard’s house, while Robert followed with 
Benjie in his arms, and Miss O’Neil screamed after 
them that they ought to stay at her house ; she had a 



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NO HEAD. 


170 

whole mince pie and a pound of sausages, and should 
admire to get them some breakfast. 

The street was full of water, mud, and ice, as deep 
as the tops of the men’s boots. Mr. Nason remarked 
encouragingly that it was “ considerable scant of an 
eighth of a mile;” but to poor Marian it was an ap- 
palling journey. Aunt Esther gave her a warm re- 
ception of rose blankets and composition tea, while 
Judith, eager to express sympathy, ran round and 
round after aromatic vinegar, which she never found. 

Tired as she w T as, Marian could not sleep till she 
knew the fate of her house. Must it be carried over 
the falls ? That dear, dear home ! She could not be 
too glad that her mother was spared this terrible sus- 
pense. 

Presently she learned that the freshet had stopped. 
The men who were keeping watch of the tide-mark 
said the water had not risen for ten- minutes ; if it 
should not rise for ten minutes more, the danger w\as 
past. Word came next that it had sunk just a hair’s 
breadth. When Marian heard that, she went to sleep 
at once, and did not awake till the next afternoon. 
She had no idea where she was. Benjie was sitting 
on the bed-post surveying her with his astonished blue 
eyes. She thought he was a cherub dancing a tight- 
rope. 

tt Had salt fish for dinner, Mamie,” he was saying ; 
w but if you don’t get up you won’t have any ; they’re 
putting it into the cellar-way.” 

Then Marian had to begin away back at the time 
when her mother went to Cuba, and follow along to 
Thankful’s marriage, and Mr. Dickey’s fall from the 


180 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


scaffold, and Robert’s not bringing the mail, before she 
could recollect last night’s horror. When it did come 
back, it came like “ the red lightning, with a storm of 
hail.” She started up in a moment to look out of the 
window and see if the bridge was really gone. Yes, 
nothing left but the poor old piers, and those half 
drowned in the treacherous flood. The ice was out, 
but countless logs were floating down, rocking and 
capsizing in the rapid current. 

“ Where is papa ? ” 

“ Gone to Mr. Liscom’s to. board till our house dries 
off,” replied Benjie, standing on his head. These sud- 
den and marvellous revolutions in the common order 
of things struck little brother as amazingly jolly. 

“ And where is Zephyr ? ” 

Benjie didn’t know. Coolly “ s'posed she’d gone 
down stream long o’ the ice. Hadn’t heard anybody 
say.” 

And I may as well remark, in passing, that nobody 
ever did “ hear anybody say ; ” but it was easy to guess 
the fate of the red roan steed. Marian was nearly wild 
with remorse. Why hadn’t she let the horse alone, as 
she did the cow, which had come out alive and well. 
Must she always act first and think afterwards ? Rob- 
ert tried to console her by saying she had washed her 
hands of a very poor piece of property. Zephyr had 
a cataract coming over one eye, her feet were getting 
useless, and her lungs pretty far gone. 

“But what of that?” said Marian, indignantly. 
“Do we love our friends the less because they are sick? 
I won’t hear you call my Zephyr a piece of property, 
and I won’t take what you call a sensible view. I 


NO HEAD. 


181 


loved that horse, and I didn’t care whether she had 
any feet, or eyes, or windpipe; why should I? ” 

It was of no use to scold Robert, who only fell into 
spasms of laughter. 

“ Poor little red-headed Zephyr, I’d like to beg a 
hair of her for memory.” 

But that was too much. As Marian truly said, “ she 
was no saint, she could not bear everything” — espe- 
cially from Robert, who was “not a true mourner.” 
The young man wiped the tears from his eyes, and 
promised solemnly he would never allude to Marian’s 
loss from that time henceforth ; and he kept his word. 

For a week or two, while the house was “ drying 
off,” Marian and Benjie staid at Mr. Willard’s, and Dr. 
Prescott at the hotel. One result of this arrangement 
was, that the doctor mortally offended Mr. Liscom, as 
might have been anticipated. He saw liquor sold 
slyly, and could not help expressing his mind on the 
subject. The doctor had very much of what may be 
called moral severity ; he could not wink at wrong- 
doing, and was sometimes led to take up matters which 
other people regarded as none of his business. 

Another result of the breaking-up was, that Marian 
learned a few lessons in housekeeping ; that is to say, 
she watched the ways at the Willards’, and determined 
to do everything just as aunt Esther didn’t. But she 
shall tell her domestic trials in her own words. 

Miss Tottenham. 

April 14. It is an ungrateful question to ask ; but 
what’s the use of bread puddings three times a week ? 
Is it “ equinomical ” ? Aunt Esther thinks so. She 


i82 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


thinks it’s all that keeps the Willard family together. 
But mother never managed in that way, and I know 
my father wouldn’t stand it. 

I am glad, so glad, we’ve got home. I could see 
we made aunt Esther some trouble, for they use differ- 
ent dishes when they have company. What an idea! 
It .seems really deceitful. And it was well we came 
away before we got “ drawn in ” to a rug. -She ac- 
tually asked if I wouldn’t give her my dress and 
Benjie’s jacket when they needed mending again, they 
would make such nice “groundwork.” I suppose she 
is the smartest woman in Quinnebasset, in the Yankee 
sense ; but nothing would tempt me to be as smart as 
she is ; it does make a house so uncomfortable. Only 
think, the Willards, little and big, are in the habit of 
spending their evenings in the kitchen. It’s like stir- 
ring up a civil war to get aunt Esther’s consent to any- 
thing else. When Benjie and I were there, Robert 
insisted on having fires in the sitting-room ; but she 
said we needn’t ask her to come in, she should only 
litter up with her rags. It was the best part of it, 
having her out of the way. I knew she was very 
much disgusted ; but I shouldn’t have cared a speck, 
if I hadn’t seen that it made Judith unhappy. 

Now that we have come back to the dear old home, 
which, by the way, is just as good as new, I mean it 
shall be a happy place, if it does take a dust-pan and 
brush. Not being very “smart,” I can spend more 
time over things than aunt Esther does. I won’t let 
my potatoes make great eyes at one another, because 
they haven’t been pared properly. I do and will pick 
out their eyes, and I do and will mash them and thresh 


NO HEAD. 


isa 


them till they turn as white and foamy as a pyramid 
of ice-cream, just like Thankful’s. That’s easy enough. 
And it’s easy not to wear blue and yellow calico, with 
your hair done in a pug, and not to cut rags ! But 
what troubles me is how to do the cooking. Yes, Miss 
Tottenham. 

I can keep my lamp-chimneys bright with soap and 
water ; I can keep a gay fire and shiny andirons, and 
fadge up pretty things out of moss and pasteboard. 
You ought to see a wooden vase Thankful had a man 
at the Poonoosac mills turn for me. I’ve adorned it 
with decalcomania, and now the first flower that winks 
this year I shall catch and put in it. 

Yes, indeed ; as far as the sitting-room, I manage 
nicely. Who couldn’t? My father pats me on the 
head, and looks pleased when he sees his dressing-gown 
and slippers walk up to the arm-chair the moment sup- 
per is over. Mr. Loring praises my housekeeping, 
though he knows nothing about it. That’s what you 
may call bar soap, coming from a lawyer ; same nature 
as soft soap, though. The house does look well as far 
as a man can see ; but what troubles me is how — to 
do — the cooking! 

I should like to feast my father royally ; but I can’t 
— on crackers. It makes me think of Hafed’s Dream, 
where you can’t tell with any certainty whether a horse 
is a horse, or only a “ wool-ox.” If I think I’m going 
to make puffs, the things won’t pufl^ or they go and 
burst. The bread doesn’t pay the least attention to the 
yeast, though I use the “ What Cheer,” which is as 
good as any. Then I tried biscuits, and couldn’t think 


184 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


what ailed them, till I found I had used cream of tartar 
instead of soda. 

If we could only keep a girl ! I’ve been very polite 
to every one that has come, and treated her like com- 
pany ; but it doesn’t do any good. Girls worCt stay, 
and when they won’t, they won’t, you may depend on’t. 
My father says it is a society question, and the roots 
of it lie at — I’ve-forgot-what ; but I don’t see that it 
makes any difference where the roots lie, if you can’t 
keep a girl. 

It’s my private suspicion that Thankful would be 
glad to come back. She looks very wistful whenever 
I see her, which is not often, for her husband has nailed 
her fast to the buttery, and keeps her making molasses 
doughnuts and molasses custards. That’s what Mrs. 
Morrison, of Poonoosac, told me. Poor old Thankful ! 
I wonder what she thinks now of my father’s “ candid 
opinion of James.” 

Aunt Filura comes and helps me sometimes, but she 
doesn’t know much. She and aunt Polly live together, 
sort of sweet and dried up, like a couple of raisins on 
one stem; and aunt Polly does the housework, while 
aunt Filura weaves rugs. Mother and Pauline won’t 
come home till June, and meantime I must manage as 
well as I can. Aunt Hinsdale sends in delicious pies 
sometimes, but I shouldn’t dare go to her for advice, 
she is so correct, and seemed so surprised because I 
never had tried out any lard. 

This is a queer world. Judith came over last night 
to tell me Robert had sent home a Stuart stove, and 
aunt Esther sent it back again because they couldn’t 
afford it. She likes the old cracked stove, though it 


NO HEAD. 


185 


burns the top of the bread and leaves the bottom raw. 
Robert can’t see that she has any business “ taking such 
an interest,” and is very much vexed ; but Mr. Willard 
thinks it is. all right, and Judith never dares say her 
soul is her own. If she did, aunt Esther wouldn’t be- 
lieve it. 

Well, we all have our trials. Miss O’Neil is con- 
stantly picking upon me because I didn’t go to her 
house on the night of the freshet. She asks me if I 
think my mother will be brought home to be buried, or 
be laid beside grandma Hinsdale in the Island of 
Havana. My father laughs at this, but I can’t : it’s too 
malicious. Then she inspects the kitchen daily, and 
makes reports all over the village. She’s my horror, 
my terror, my pestilence that walketh at noonday. 

Judith says, Why do I mind her? Judith may web 
talk, I should think ! And why do I expect to have, 
things in perfect order? It can’t be done with no 
head in the kitchen. 

“Judith,” said I, “there shall be a head in the 
kitchen, if it has to grow on my shoulders. Look at 
those biscuits. Putting in soda instead of cream of 
tartar has had an excellent effect, and 1 begin to be 
encouraged.” 


186 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


COBWEBS. 



Miss Tottenham. 

April 30. 

tffjHERE isn’t any head to the kitchen, and I 
won’t boast again. I have a sore on my left 
forefinger. I told Benjie it was caused by 
mending his clothes, and that is what I shall always 
think. 

Robert sent Judith over this morning, for he heard 
me say I hadn’t slept a wink, though I should think he 
would know Judith isn’t of any more use in a kitchen 
than a velvet rocking-chair. Not that the dear child 
hasn’t the best of intentions ; but I’ll tell you what she 
did. She scorched her new empress cloth dress, 
scalded her arm, and melted the bottom out of the tea- 
kettle, just getting dinner. I was so sorry, for it was 
ever so kind in her to send me. into the library to make 
up my sleep. I know how sensitive she is ; and though 
my father was unusually polite, neither he nor any 
other man alive could eat the steak ; it was as tough as 
burnt india-rubber. 

Judith was dreadfully mortified, and after dinner she 
just tipped over into the clothes basket, and cried. 

“ If I were only like other people ! ” said she. 


COB WEBS. 


187 


I wish she wouldn’t pick herself to pieces, as if she 
were an eight-day clock. 

“ Why, you are like other people,” said I, though I 
am afraid I didn’t quite mean it, either ; only I wanted 
to comfort her a little. 

“You needn’t talk so, Marian,” said she, passion- 
ately. “ I know just what I am ; I am arm’s length 
away from the other girls ; they call me absent-minded 
and queer. You are the only one who really under- 
stands and loves me ; and you are so bright and happy, 
that half the time I envy you so, it almost takes away 
my breath.” 

It distresses me to have Judith go on in that strain. 

“You have everything heart can wish, Marian; you 
charm people. They follow you about, and watch 
everything you do ; but, as for me, it is as much as ever 
they know I am in the world.” 

“Why, Judith, you strange girl; I never saw any 
one follow me about.” 

“Well, Robert does, for one, and Tid. Tid copies 
your very way of speaking ; and what vexes me is, that 
you don’t care, and don’t notice it. You are used to 
being admired, and take it as a matter of course. If 
you could be in my place a week, I guess you’d see the 
difference.” 

I don’t know but my father is partly right, when he 
says, “Judith suffers from an unoccupied, introverted 
mind.” I am sure she imagines all this about me. I 
only wish it were true. 

I told her it was too bad for her to think so meanly 
of herself. I never in my life saw anybody that didn’t 
like her. 


188 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


“To be sure,” said she, curling her lip. “Nobody 
notices me enough to speak of me at all.” 

“ O, but you are mistaken. Pitkin J ones said to me, 
only yesterday, he thought you were very superior.” 

I was surprised to see how Judith brightened up at 
that, and I couldn’t help adding, “Not that Pitkin’s 
judgment is worth much ; but uncle Hinsdale said the 
same thing of you last week.” 

“ Is it possible? ” said she. But she didn’t seem half 
so much flattered by that, though he is her own minis- 
ter. I don’t see what makes her think so much of Pit- 
kin ; I consider him flat. 

Well, Judith got her eyes, so red she wasn’t fit to be 
seen, and I sent her home. Here it is evening, and I 
am alone. My father said he might be gone all night. 
Tom has been sitting on the other side of the table, 
perusing the almanac ; but I’m glad he’s gone to bed, 
for he smells of the barn, bamy. 

My finger throbs painfully; but that’s nothing to 
Benjie’s being sick. I’m afraid that child is coming 
down with scarlet fever; his eyes are as red as fire, 
and he breathes very short. 

But that isn’t all, nor half. When Robert brought 
the mail, there was a letter from Havana, which I 
opened, as my father always expects me to do when he 
is away, and it said mother was not nearly as well. 

“ O, Robert,” said I, “you don’t think it’s anything 
to be frightened about — do you ? ” 

He answered, in a very cheerful tone, that he didn’t 
see why it should be. The only wonder was, that 
mother hadn’t had any drawbacks before. But I put 


COB WEBS. 


189 


the letter into his hands, and when he had read it all 
through, I thought his face changed. 

“Poor child,” said he, “how is your finger?” But 
he never said another word about mother. 

I’m determined not to think. I’ve been looking out 
of the window ; but the moonlight is so chilly ! There 
are little pools of water in the road, and the winds set 
them to shivering. The skeleton trees are holding up 
their bare arms to the sky, just as if they were asking 
for something. Ah me ! I keep asking for something, 
all day and all night ; I ask for my mother. If she 
were here, I know I could sleep. When I was in any 
trouble, she used to come up stairs and comfort me. 
And 


“ I loved her, O, I loved her so, 
; Twas joy to hear her tread.” 


1 could have a good cry, only Thankful has almost 
broken me of the habit. I do think it’s partly a habit. 
It’s just as well not to be flimsy. There, I hear Ben- 
jie calling. 

May 1. Last night, as I was singing to little 
brother, who was very restless, there was a sound of 
wheels, and presently I heard aunt Filura’s voice, say- 
ing,— 

“Well, Robert is most an excellent driver, or I 
should have been afraid for my neck.” 

I danced for joy. Bless that old Robert. He was 
off without my seeing him. In came aunt Filura like 
an angel of mercy, with a striped carpet-sack in one 
hand and an umbrella in the other, and never so 
much as said, How do you do ? But that is nothing 
strange for her. She is always so earnest about some- 


190 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


thing or other, that she forgets her manners. This 
time it was my “ runround ; ” and before she took off 
her bonnet, she had brought me a cup of ashes and 
water, and put my finger in soak. Then she half un- 
tied her bonnet strings, and with her bonnet dangling 
down her back, opened the carpet-bag, and took out 
a vial of goose oil and a feather, and made a dash at 
Benjie’s nose, as if it were a rusty door-hinge. How it 
did rest me and soothe me to see her ! 

But though she calms me and calms everybody, she 
stirs up the furniture strangely. Things are always 
rattling or tipping over, wherever she goes. She took 
the stopper out of the camphor bottle, and then took 
off her shawl, and whisked it against the bottle, and 
tipped over the camphor. Our carpet will smell like 
sick headache for a week. She said, “ How careless of 
me ! ” and soaked it up with her pocket-handkerchief. 
Then she lighted a lamp, and went to hunt for cob- 
webs, which, I am happy to say, I don’t keep down 
stairs ; she had to rummage the attic. 

She came down with her cap half torn off her head. 

“ I’ve found a great wonder,” said she. 

I looked up to see what it could be, and she was 
holding out her forefinger for my admiration, all 
swathed in a slate-colored cobweb. 

“ See here, Mary Ann ; it takes four or five thousand 
strands to make a fine thread like this. What do you 
think of spiders, with their glue-bags pricked all 
through with little holes?” 

“ O, auntie,” said I, “ I am afraid I don’t think much 
about them. What are you going to do with cob* 
webs ? ” 


COBWEBS. 


191 


“ I’m going to stop your runround. Hold out your 
linger, and let me do it up with this rag.” 

“ My father doesn’t use cobwebs.” 

“Your father doesn’t know everything, Mary Ann, 
not by a great sight. Where’s the vinegar bottle ? ” 

I felt relieved very soon. It didn’t seem as if Benjie 
had the scarlet fever, now aunt Filura had oiled his 
nose, and I didn’t feel half so anxious about mother 
after I had heard her say, “ Spring fever, most likely. 
We won’t borrow trouble.” I slept sweetly all night. 
It may have been the poultice, and then again it may 
have been the composing draught which aunt Filura, 
gave me, and which was easy to take, being merely a 
dose of advice. It is worth saving as a recipe, and I 
will copy it here. 

Aunt WiAs Composing Draught. 

“ When you feel wakeful, Mary Ann, it is most an 
excellent plan to get to thinking about the wonderful 
works of the Creator. You will be astonished to find 
how it will grow upon you. You can’t exhaust the 
subject. Earth, and air, and water are full of his glory. 
Follow the process of things up out of chaos ; you’re 
better read in geology than I am. Think how the 
same One who did all this is your Father; and the 
first you know you’ll be a speck in the air, floating off 
to sleep. 

v I am acquainted with a man who was kept awake 
by a nervous disease, and he followed this rule for 
years. It worked like a charm; and the best of it 
was, it made him a real good Christian.” 


192 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


Now isn’t this a capital opiate? I don’t believe my 
father could prescribe a better one. I took it; and 
after a while I had a filmy idea that my head was a 
spindle, and I was spinning thread out of my hair. So 
I may say I went to sleep on a spider. 

Dear auntie made some of the yellowest, spottedest 
biscuits to-night. My father thought they were mine, 
and felt called upon to apologize. 

“Filura, you must excuse Marian,” said he; “she 
doesn’t understand cooking; but I must say I never 
knew her to do anything quite equal to this.” 

It was a great joke ; but fortunately aunt Filura isn’t 
sensitive. I shall laugh myself to sleep, thinking how 
my father’s faoe when A>und out his mistake. 


CHANGES. 


193 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


CHANGES. 

“ Suffering- is my gain. I bow 
To my heavenly Father’s will, 
And receive it, hushed and still. 
Suffering is my worship now.” 


Jeaw Paul. 


Miss Tottenham. 



December 20. 


is nearly two years, Miss Tottenham, since you 


Not that I have found 


little to say; but my heart has been too full 


for words. 

Grandma Hinsdale was buried nine years ago at 
Cardenas, not far .from Havana ; and there they placed 
the poor tired body which mamma left behind her 
when she passed on to heaven. A palm tree waves 
over the two graves, and through its high branches I 
seem to hear the wind sighing. 

Nine years ago grandma lay down there to rest; 
and a year ago last June her weary daughter followed 
her. 

Pauline says she often heard mamma whispering in 
the night, “Mother, I am so tired!” She never will 
say it again. She has gone to that pitying mother; 
but the breast that once cradled her is cold ; the ears 
which listened to every sigh are forever deaf. 


13 


194 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


My own, my dear mamma! She tried so hard to 
live ! She hoped through everything. But it came to 
this at last/ Her tired feet will never rove again; 
they have reached the haven that has -awaited them 
all these years under the sighing tree. 

Did she think it was for this she went so bravely to 
Cuba, and ate the bread of sorrow among strangers ? 
And is the cold home bv the sea all that is left her 
— all? 

She dreamed of warmth and sweet kisses, the loving 
glow of dear cheeks pressed close to her own; but 
all these dreams froze into ice upon her heart. Noth- 
ing is left her but that cold home by the sea. 

Dear God, is that all ? She trusted thee ; she hoped 
for happy days. While it was dark, she said the sun 
was shining somewhere; when the cloud passed, she 
smiled. Papa says there was always a rainbow in her 
sky. She followed it to the end, and found — a narrow 
home. 

Hush ! I did not mean to talk like this. I thought I 
could trust myself to say, calmly and simply, that 
mother has gone to heaven. That is really all of it. 
What does it signify about the other things ? She is 
not half so near that palm tree as she is to me. 

I think I was a little wild at first. People said to 
me it was wicked to wish her back. I did not know 
what they meant. How could I help wishing her 
back? I said they who hadn’t lost mothers needn’t 
talk to me. I wished they would stay away. Judith 
was all the girl I would see, and I could not have en- 
dured the sight of her if she hadn’t been motherless. 

Not wish mamma back! Sho did not suffer very 


CHANGES. 


195 


much ; she was happy here. She would have staid 
longer if she only might have had leave. She was in 
no haste to go to heaven away from us. 

I do think I was a little wild. I hardly knew what 
time of year it was. I didn’t care much about my 
father and Benjie. I hardly believed in God. What 
should I have done if it hadn’t been for aunt Filura ? 
She let me be crazy; she never interfered with me. 
“ I don’t see,” said I, “ how God expects people to love 
him when he treats them so.” 

It was such a relief to say dreadful things, for then 
I seemed to have emptied my heart of them, and they 
did not come back again to stay. I told aunt Filura 
it was like casting out devils. It was very strange she 
should have understood it so well. She never felt re- 
bellious herself, I am sure ; I hope I never shall again. 
It is like a bit of sea-weed fighting against the ocean 
— so foolish, so useless. It tore me all in pieces. 

“ All the way for you, my child,” said aunt Filura, 
“ is to put your arms round God’s neck and call him 
Father.” 

It was just what she said to me before, when we 
were in trouble about Keller’s marriage. 

“ I have tried that a great many times, auntie, and 
found it a comfort ; but the truth is, my arms won’t 
stay there.” 

“ Try it again and again,” said she. And I did. I 
had to do it. It was the only way I could get any 
peace. I kept saying it was right, whatever He had 
done ; and by and by I believed it, and then the time 
came when I did not merely believe it or think it ; I 
knew it. 


196 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


I am not always willing it should be so. I do have 
such times of wearying to see my mother! Still I 
know just what to do, and sometimes it drowns my 
grief, and once in a while I go to sleep with that beau- 
tiful feeling at my heart which I tried once to tell you 
about — a feeling as if mother had been there, and left 
flowers in the room. You did not understand what I 
meant, but Tennyson does. These are the flowers 
she leaves : — 


“ Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odors haunt ray dreams.” 

Poor papa has grown old and gray. I have made a 
solemn promise to my own soul never to leave him. I 
don’t see how Pauline could have gone away when the 
house was so desolate, and married anybody, even Mr. 
Loring; but papa never blamed her. She is just as 
kind as can be about advising and overseeing, for she 
lives not very far away, in a neat cottage on the 
Hacket Hill. 

I have really taken my place now at the head of the 
household. I thought that night of the freshet I was 
standing “ where the brook and river meet ; ” and so I 
was. Not that I wished it. I would much rather be 
a little girl, and have a careless good time ; but when 
“ Fate knocks at the door,” what are you going to do 
about it? I wonder now at the longing I used to 
have, at thirteen and fourteen, to get into long dresses ! 
If little girls only knew how long dresses feel, they 
wouldn’t be in such a hurry. 

Papa got so discouraged going after girls, that I 
thought it would save a great deal of heart-burning to 


CHANGES. 


197 


give up the matter entirely, more especially since 1 
had learned to make good bread. Mrs. Nason comes 
to wash and iron, and do the scrubbing, and I verily 
believe it is more comfortable to get through the rest 
of the work myself, and have it done just as I know 
papa likes it. If we had a girl, she would probably be 
older than I, and think she knew a great deal more ; 
and really, Miss Tottenham, I don’t care about being 
looked down upon. 

Then again I must have something in my mind to 
grind except my own thoughts : if the hopper was 
empty, I should whirl round distracted. 

Keller is at home now, preparing to go to Wiscon- 
sin, into a coal mine. It is one of the disappointments 
of my father’s life that that boy doesn’t “ take to learn- 
ing;” but it was of no use urging him to go to college ; 
his face was set against it. I know how my father felt 
when he was obliged to give up his cherished plan. I 
know a great many things my father feels, just by in- 
tuition. It is because I have the same blood in my 
own veins, perhaps. “High-strung, like all the Pres- 
cotts,” says aunt Filura. 

Keller is as good and kind as possible, and loves me 
dearly, which is a new freak of his. I hope it will last. 
Two years ago he thought I was very sarcastic; and 
so I was, and am still. Cutting speeches are always 
coming to the end of my tongue, and when I do keep 
them back I must say I think I deserve credit. 

Benjie is my darling. He shed streams of weak 
little tears when mother died ; but how much did he 
comprehend? “Mamie” means almost the same as 
“Mamma” with him, and the dear child never will 


*98 


THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER. 


know what he has lost. When I see how he clings to 
me, it makes me feel as old as the hills, and very self- 
important too. 

I am surprised that it should be so ; but as true as 
you live, Miss Tottenham, I am as happy as a bird. I 
miss mamma more and more ; but except at times, I 
enjoy life as well as ever. Perhaps it is partly because 
I know I am needed. What would my poor father do 
without me ? I am so proud, so delighted to hear him 
say, “Well, Miss Sunbeam, all the light of this house 
comes from that yellow head of yours.” 

I’m glad enough my head is yellow ; it seems as if 
he warms his hands when he puts them on my hair. 

Robert is studying medicine with my father, and 
will attend his second course of lectures this winter. 
I suppose there is no doubt about him; he will 
rise in the world. But as for Keller, one can’t be 
so sure. Robert thinks he is developing some busi- 
ness talent. I hope so. Who knows but we may all 
ride in a gold coach yet ? 

I have said nothing about Judith, because I really 
don’t understand what is the matter with her, though 
I fancy it is something more than a low state of the 
system. She sits for half an hour sometimes, looking 
at vacancy. If she is unhappy, I should think she 
might confide in me ; but I ask no questions. 

O, I must tell you what Thankful said the first time 
she visited us, after Pauline came home from Cuba. 
She had brought her knitting, and was to stay to tea. 

“ I heard, in the first place, it was you that was dead, 
Pauline, and I supposed it was so for as much as a 


CHANGES. 


199 


week ; but when I found it was your mother, I thought 
I should have fainted away.” 

Pauline’s tears were falling while Thankful spoke, 
but at the same time she smiled a little. Who could 
help it at such a singular remark ? 

But it was not like the speeches Miss O’Neil makes 
out of that cold heart and silly brain of hers. She is 
constantly saying things which wound me, for there is 
an edge of truth in them. 

“Well, Miriam, your poor mother was buried in the 
Island of Havana. You see I \^as right. I told you 
her death might be momentous. I said so the night 
you had the party, and Mr. Lovell gave you that 
rose.” 

“Yes, I remember, Miss O’Neil. Please don’t speak 
of it.” 

“Yes, Miriam, I should think if you had a squeam 
of conscience, you would feel bad to think how you 
tired out your mother in her last days having com- 
pany. And not to -wear a scrap of mourning for her 
either ! It’s the talk of the town. If I have my senses 
when I am buried, I hope nobody’ll follow me to my 
grave with such a sinful bonnet. Blue ribbon and 
flowers ! And that dear Mrs. Linscott gone to heaven, 
if ever anybody went from this town.” 

I am getting to hate her. It frightens me. The 
more I try to shake off this feeling, the more it haunts 
me. As my father and I sat playing backgammon the 
other night, I asked him if it was possible to learn to 
love a perfectly disagreeable person. 

“Yes, after a fashion.” 


200 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“ How?” 

“ Do the perfectly disagreeable person a kindness.” 

Then he wanted to know who it was. As if any* 
body alive could be perfectly disagreeable except 
Norah O’Neil. 

“I’ll make her a present,” said I; “how will that 
do?” 

“Humph! I’ll tell you how it will do. She will 
take it as she takes the rent of her house — in high 
dudgeon. She says I ought to give her the deed 
of the house outright. If I can’t do more than let 
her have a life-lease, I don’t act the part of a Chris- 
tian, and I shouldn’t be thought anything of at Ma- 
chias ! ” 

“Well, papa, you may laugh; but I think it’s 
enough to exasperate a saint. The time is past 
when these things amuse me ; they just stir up my 
wrath.” 

“Tut, tut,” said my father. “Don’t expect figs to 
grow on thistles. But if you are getting into this state 
of mind, there must be something done about it. I 
can’t allow my daughter to waste her animosity on a 
poor, witless creature like that. If you haven’t grasp 
of mind enough, Marian, to find room for Miss O’Neil, 
I strongly advise your befriending her in some way for 
the good effect it may have on yourself. Never mind 
how she takes it. Do something that will really help 
her, and let her scold as she will.” 

I felt rebuked. I do suppose a person of my age 
ought to have more charity and forbearance. 

Well, I talked with the girls, and we, being Miss 


CHANGES. 


201 


O’Neil’s cordial haters, all decided that we would 
try the plan of making her a donation party, just to 
see if we couldn’t warm our hearts towards the poor 
old thing. 

She is now visiting in her paradise among the 
Wixes. When she returns we are to give her a 
Christmas party, and I will tell you how it turns out 


202 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE SYMPOSIUM. 



MSS O’NEIL had just returned from her 
“paradise among the Wixes,” and was try- 
ing to burn a stick of green wood in her 
air-ti"ht stove. 


“ I have such good friends in the Wix neighbor- 
hood ! ” mused she, striking another match. “I always 
knew that. I start to walk up there, and make visits 
along on the way ; and no matter how bad the travel- 
ling is, or how busy they are, I’ve noticed that some 
of them are always ready to bring me home.” 

This proof of the Wix friendship was so convincing, 
and so consoling, that the ancient dame dwelt upon it 
all the while the bit of newspaper was taking fire, even 
till the kindlings began to blaze and besiege the green 
wood. 

“ Yes, they are good friends of mine, up there. Ich- 
abod Wix had his hands more than full, doing up gar- 
den seeds ; but he said, ‘ he could always spare time 
and horses to oblige Miss O’Neil.’ I sometimes wish I 
lived among them, they all like me so well. Dear 
knows, I get very little attention here in the village. 
In Machias, now, before that wicked Mr. McGrath 
cheated me out of my property, I was looked upon as 


THE SYMPOSIUM. 


20 & 

a lady. But time relapses on, and brings great changes. 
Quinnebasset isn’t like Machias ; the people are very 
different. Here is Dr. Linscott, one of the first men in 
town, taking a mean advantage of my slender circum- 
stances, and renting me this house full of rats. It 
sounds very generous if you don’t hear the wind shake 
the old blinds. Only a life-lease, either. If I should 
die I couldn’t will away a single board in the floor. I 
have nothing to will away to anybody — I, that had a 
fortune once of my own ! An O’Neil, too ! ” 

With the last words the poor soul shut the stove 
door with an air which was nothing less than regal, and 
looked witheringly around the plain but decent apart- 
ment, at the school benches set in straight rows against 
the walls, at the vase of dried grasses on the mantel 
beside the photograph of the Reverend Mr. Hinsdale, 
and at the red and green carpet on the floor, presented 
last spring by some of the “first ladies” of the parish. 

“ Dr. Linscott wouldn’t be satisfied with such a 
house himself, and an air-tight stove is very unhealthy. 
Ah, well,” murmured she, falling back upon her favorite 
text, which she must have thought very elastic, for it 
fitted any occasion. “Do good in thy good pleasure 
unto Zion ; build thou the walls of Jerusalem.” 

That seemed to settle the matter of the house and 
furniture ; and the next grievance which Miss O’Neil 
took up with her basket of shavings was the wind. 

“ What a town this is for gales ! I don’t remember 
that we ever had anything like it in Machias. There, 
the neurology is flashing into my jaw again. I must 
tie it up before it spreads.’ 

And festooning her head with a red bandanna, Miss 


204 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


O’Neil seated herself permanently, at last, in her stuffed 
chintz rocker, known among the young people as her 
“ growlery.” 

“ It is lonesome, when the wind blows, to sit and 
soliloquize all alone to yourself. I should think some 
of the neighbors might come in. They must have seen 
me riding by with Ichabod Wix ; but nobody cares 
whether I’ve got home or not. If I hadn’t been 
cheated out of my property ! Ah, well ! The wind 
bloweth, and it listeth, and as the tree falleth, so it 
shall lie.” 

These little quotations from Scripture, in which Miss 
O’Neil indulged to such an extent, were usually very 
wide of the mark ; still they had come to take the place 
in her mind of something like ejaculatory prayers ; and 
who shall say that, as such, they were altogether worth- 
less and void of meaning ? 

“ Christmas is coming, and nobody has asked me to 
dinner. I wonder if I hadn’t better go to Dr. Lin- 
scott’s : Miriam is getting to be q very nice cook — 
only she is not agreeable in her manners. I know Mrs. 
Ichabod meant for me to stay there, if she hadn’t been 
so mortified about burning the plum cake. I told her 
I shouldn’t mind that, if the turkey turned out well ; 
and then I said all that was proper about being fond 
of mince pies, and thinking everything of her family ; 
but she was so polite that she got all of a flurry for fear 
Ichabod wouldn’t harness as soon as I was ready for 
him. She thought I should feel dreadfully to be caught 
there in a storm, though I told her over and over again 
I should admire to stay all winter. She thinks they 
couldn’t do without me here in the village ; but times 


THE S TMPOSIUM. 


205 


have changed. I used to be invited to the first houses 
to eat my Christmas ; but here I am now ; nobody 
comes near me to see if I’m dead or alive.” 

There was a knock at the door. Miss O’Neil settled 
her cap and shook out her dress. “A caller, as true as 
I live. I wish people knew when to stay away. I 
should have caught a nap in about a minute ; but 
there’s no such thing as having your house to yourself 
in Quinnebasset.” 

Miss O’Neil went to the door with her sourest as- 
pect. 

“ Good evening, Mary Smith. I won’t call you 
Marie, for there isn’t a drop of French blood in your 
veins. Walk in, child.” 

Marie entered very demurely, and placed a little box 
on the table. 

“ I wish you a Merry Christmas, Miss O’Neil.” 

“ H^m ! — O yes, thank you, dear,” faltered the old 
lady, with her eyes on the box. 

“I wanted to make my old teacher a little present,” 
said Marie, opening the box, “ and I Hope you’ll please 
accept this cap.” 

“Very much obliged to you, you little darling,” said 
Miss O’Neil, extending her hand, doubtfully. “ People 
don’t think to give me presents as they used to, before 
I lost my property. I had presents enough then, when 
I didn’t need them. But you always were a sweet 
child. Blue ! ” exclaimed she, picking at the rosette. 
“If there’s a color I despise, it’s blue; but of course 
you didn’t know that, and Pm just as much obliged to 
you” 

“ Green ! ’’ interposed Marie ; “ green ! ” 


206 THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

“ Well, it must be a very blue green, then,” said Miss 
O’Neil, putting on the cap over her old one and the 
red bandanna, and surveying the effect in the glass. 

“ Why, it’s too small in the crown, and don’t come 
far enough forward, by two inches, to meet my front 
hair.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Marie, biting her lip, “ if you would 
take off that bandage you might judge better, Miss 
O’Neil” 

There was another knock, and Judith Willard en- 
tered, a pink glow from the sharp air relieving the 
moonlight paleness of her face. 

“ A Merry Christmas, Miss O’Neil,” said she, putting 
a bandbox on one of the school benches. 

“ Take a chair, dear,” said the old lady, with an un- 
certain smile. “ If you’d wished me Merry Christmas 
twenty-five years ago, I might have got it, for I hadn’t 
been cheated out of my property then.” 

“ Miss O’Neil,” said Judith, timidly, “ I couldn’t think 
w r hat to give you; but here is a bonnet I hope you’ll 
like.” 

“You dear child, you learned behavior at my school, 
and I’m sure I thank you kindly. This is quite unex- 
pected.” 

“ Marian and I made it together.” 

Miss O’Neil turned the bonnet round and round on 
her hand. 

“ Well, I don’t think any better of it for Miriam 
Linscott’s having a hand in it ; but I guess I’ll try 
it on.” 

Which she did, regardless of her muffled jaws and 
double supply of caps. 


THE SYMPOSIUM. 


207 


44 Why, what a dowdy-looking thing ! Excuse me, 
Judy ; I know Miriam was the one to blame. She 
always goes in front of the rear.” 

44 But, Miss O’Neil — ” 

“When I lived at Machias, girls, people used to 
come to church from a distance just to see me, there 
was so much said about my beauty. But who would 
think it now, with this bunch of furbelows stuck on the 
back of my head ? ” 

The question would not admit of an answer, and the 
girls turned away to hide their laughing faces. 

44 But, Miss O’Neil,” entreated Judith , 44 if you’ll only 
take off that bandage, and one of your caps.” 

44 Indeed, I shall do no such thing,” returned the lady, 
with spirit. 44 When I have the neurology in my face 
I must have room to tie it up.” 

But the bonnet was very tasteful, and it was evident 
that Miss O’Neil liked it, for she smiled admiringly, 
and looked very well pleased as she carried it off to 
her bedroom. 

There was another knock. This time it was Osca- 
foria, with a handsome woollen shawl of warm, brown 
tints, nicely shaded. 

44 Please accept, with the compliments of the season,” 
said Miss Ossie, in her most graceful manner. 

44 Why, really, what surprises ! ” cried Miss O’Neil, 
delighted, till she remembered that Mr. Jones was the 
richest man in town, and his daughter might have done 
more. 

44 A shawl is better than nothing, and thank you 
kindly, dear. I always thought so much of your family ! 
To be sure, I had a velvet cloak once ; but that was 


208 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


before I lost my property. I never expect another vel- 
vet, or any kind of a cloak, for that matter.” 

“I am so sorry, Miss O’Neil!” said Oscaforia, cha- 
grined. “ If you don’t like the shawl, pray don’t feel 
obliged to keep it.” 

“ Why, Ossie, what did you expect ? ” said Marie, as 
Miss O’Neil, with the shawl still on her shoulders, an- 
swered another knock at the door. “You’ve had no 
worse rebuff than Judith and I. The old soul is in 
raptures, but you know it’s part of her religion to make 
people uncomfortable.” 

There was a gay laugh, and Marian tripped into the 
room, bright and breezy. At seventeen people were 
beginning to call her beautiful. This was not and 
never would be strictly true ; but there was a sparkle 
and a freshness in her face which charmed away your 
criticism. Her nose might be a trifle large, but you 
would be willing to have one larger still if it only 
looked as sensible as hers. She might have, here and 
there, a few stray freckles ; but they paled in the glory 
of her golden hair, till they seemed as faint as the stars 
in the Milky Way. She had grown fast within the 
last few years, and, being straight and well propor- 
tioned, looked taller than Judith, who was half a head 
above her, but carried herself as ill as ever. 

“A Merry Christmas, and many happy returns!” 
said Marian, offering to embrace Miss O’Neil, who drew 
back in disdain. 

“ O, but won’t you let me kiss you for Christmas ? ” 
pleaded Marian, roguishly, which of course called forth 
the little frozen speech the girls had heard so many 
times. 



I WAS BROUGHT UP NEVER TO KISS. Page 209. 








THE STMPOSIUM. 


209 


“ I was brought up never to kiss.” 

But Marian seized her playfully by the shoulders, 
and pecked her withered cheek rapidly half a dozen 
times. 

“ There now, I’ve kissed you for Christmas, and 
New Year’s, and Fourth of July, and Thanksgiving 
Day, too ; and I’d like to see you help yourself Miss 
Norah O’Neil.” 

“ O, you foolish Galathian,” returned the descendant 
of the O’Neils, actually smiling. “Your manners are 
so uncultivated, Miriam! You’ve crushed my beau- 
tiful new cap.” 

“ She calls the cap beautiful. I told you so,” said 
Marie aside to Oscaforia. 

“ See how some of my old scholars have remembered 
me, Miriam. Don’t you admire my shawl ? You 
would if you had good taste.” 

“Certainly I admire it; and pray keep it on. Beg 
pardon, Miss O’Neil, but the room is rather chilly, and 
as we came to spend the evening, mayn’t I take the 
liberty to make the fire burn better ? ” 

The hostess drew herself up in stately surprise ; but 
before she had time to remonstrate Marian had run out 
to the shed and returned with a basket of chips and an 
armful of wood. 

“You never could keep your place when you were 
a little child and went to my school, and you haven’t 
improved a grain since,” said Miss O’Neil, frigidly. 

“ O, you like to be hospitable, you know you do,” 
laughed Marian ; “ it’s an Irish trait.” 

“ Yes,” said the lady, a little mollified, “ I was origi- 
nally born in Ireland, and I’m proud to have it known.” 

14 


210 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“ And it is known. No one who has ever seen you 
could doubt where you were originally born,” returned 
Marian, with a sly glance at the girls. “ But now will 
you please step into the bedroom and try on a wrapper 
you will find hanging up in your closet? ” 

“ What ! You too ? I didn’t expect you’d brought 
a thing,” said Miss O’Neil, evidently delighted. 

“Quick! now’s our time, girls,” cried Marian, as 
Miss O’Neil lighted a small lamp, and vanished into 
the bedroom. 

Judith and Marie Smith hastened to the front door, 
and brought in three large baskets, which had been 
sitting outside in the snow. Oscaforia opened the 
leaves of the table, and covered it with a fine white 
cloth. 

“ There,” said she, setting a large frosted cake in the 
middle, “behold a- peace-offering ! Now I hope to be 
forgiven for the shawl.” 

“ And here is some lemonade,” said Marie, producing 
a pitcher and glasses. “ I trust it’s sour enough to give 
satisfaction.” 

“ Don’t get me to laughing,” said Judith, overturning 
a fruit-dish full of confectionery. “ I brought this to 
offset your lemonade.” 

Marian, who had at last succeeded in building a lusty 
fire, stole out to the magic door-stone, and returned 
with a platter of cold turkey and a plate of biscuits. 

“ She’ll say, ‘ You foolish Galathian, why didn’t you 
bring a goose ? ’ ” whispered Marian. “ Now let’s 
light our four sperm candles. Quite an illumination. 
And the room is thawing out — don’t you feel the 
difference, since the fire began to burn?” 


THE SYMPOSIUM. 


211 


“ Yes, and Miss O’Neil’s poor old heart is thawing 
out too,” said Marie, with a great gush of pity, such as 
she had never felt for her despised ex-teacher till she 
made her the cap. 

“ I hadn’t the least idea she’d give us time to set the 
table,” said Judith. 

At that moment the bedroom door opened, and Miss 
O’Neil reappeared, muttering something about the 
bother she had had with those “ mincing button-holes.” 
It was all the fault she could possibly find with the 
dark-green merino wrapper, bordered with silk of the 
same shade ; but, as the girls said, “ she must find fault 
or die.” 

“ What a perfect fit ! ” they all exclaimed. 

Marian had taken unwearied pains in patterning after 
a gown abstracted from Miss O’Neil’s wardrobe, and 
her success was complete, except the one mincing but- 
ton-hole. The fastidious old lady, whose taste in dress 
was good, could not help being satisfied, and came for- 
ward now, with a stately tread and a smiling face, con- 
scious of looking her best in her “ falsest black front,” 
and very sure she deserved praise for condescending to 
take off the cherished bandanna and put on the janty 
new cap. 

“ O, girls, isn’t she a picture ? She was a beauty 
once, I know she was,” said Marie, clasping her hands. 

“ Turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity,” re- 
sponded Miss O’Neil, gazing in the looking-glass with 
intense delight. “ I always told you I was called a 
beauty in my day ; but the young men said I had the 
heart of a stone. Why, girls, what have you been 
doing ? ” 


212 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“We came without our suppers,” said Marian, in a 
tone of apology, “ and we are so hungry ! Hope you’12 
excuse us. Please take a chair, ma’am, and wait upon 
the table.” 

“ Why, really, indeed now,” said the astonished lady, 
sweeping a courtesy, which had been part of her stock 
of manners in old times, and was very graceful still. 
“ Indeed now, this is quite unexpected. It carries me 
back, young ladies, to the time when my father used to 
give parties, before we lost our — Hark ! What’s that ? ” 

There was a loud knocking, accompanied by shrill 
halloos. As Miss O’Neil went to the door, she saw 
Robert Willard, Keller Prescott, Pitkin Jones, Silas 
Hackett, and the new school teacher, standing in the 
moonlight before two ox-sleds. 

“We’ve brought you some wood — where shall we 
put it ? ” 

Miss O’Neil’s nerves had been sadly tried this even- 
ing, and she did not know whether to scold the young 
men for the fright they had given her, or to embrace 
them for gratitude. 

“ O, my patience ! ” cried she ; “ you are so kind ! 
but you’ve thrown me into a terrible flutter. I should 
think this was a pretty time of night to bring a load of 
wood. You’d better go right off, — and heave it into 
the shed, gentlemen.” 

But Miss O’Neil bethought herself, presently, that 
this was not a very gracious way to receive favors. 
True, the people of Machias would never have startled 
a lone woman with oxen at such an unseasonable hour ; 
still, her shed was nearly empty, and the wood most 
Acceptable. 


THE SYMPOSIUM. 


2U 

“ O, you lovely creatures ! ” exclaimed she, when the 
last stick was disposed of, and the young men entered 
the house to claim their places at the supper table, 
which was waiting for them. “ Thank you kindly for 
w T hat you’ve done, and may you be blessed in basket 
and in store. I see it has been sawed and split ; is it 
all stove length ? Now let ns say grace.” 

The transition was so abrupt from business to de- 
votion, that the strange guest, Mr. Fordyce Bailey, 
found it hard to preserve his gravity daring the short 
blessing which the hostess asked, with her black-mitted 
hands reverently folded. 

“ Gentlemen, I’ve made you some tea,” said she, open- 
ing her eyes, and smiling benignly. “ The girls would 
never have thought of it ; but tea is very refreshing. 
And here is some cream Mrs. Ichabod Wix gave me, 
one of my best friends. Help yourselves, do. I don’t 
know when we shall all eat together again ; and be- 
sides, I’m afraid it won’t keep.” 

There was a sudden contortion of Fordyce Bailey’s 
face, which came near being the ruin of the whole 
party. He had heard that Miss O’Neil was bird-witted, 
and a town-curiosity, but had not come prepared for 
such a mixture of graceful hospitality and child-like 
simplicity. 

It was a royal Christmas evening for the poor old 
soul. Smiles wreathed her withered lips, -roses glowed 
in her sallow cheeks, the light of other days shone in 
her old eyes, making it possible to believe the tradition 
that she had once been the handsomest young lady in 
the town of Machias. 

“Yes, I see a little flicker of beauty there,” thought 


214 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


Marian. “ Pity we have to grow old and shrivel up 
like dried apples. It must be a cross. What if one 
of us four girls should be left all alone in the world, 
and didn’t even love cats ? Mightn’t we turn into 
vinegar as well as she ? Always provided we hadn’t 
sense enough to try to keep sweet.” 

It was a charitable question, and a wise one ; but 
blithe young Marian had never asked it before, and 
would not have asked it now, if her sympathies had 
not broadened and deepened in the very act of fitting 
that troublesome merino wrapper. Never in her life 
before had she felt such tenderness for that “perfectly 
disagreeable person,” Miss Norah O’Neil. 

“ They say the heart must have something to cherish, 
or ‘ in itself to ashes burn.’ I see it all, now,” thought 
she, with a gentle smile of pity, as the lady of the house 
singled her out, with her usual animosity, and paraded 
her faults before the company. “ Let her talk ; why 
should I care?” 

“ The most ungain scholar I ever had at my school, 
Miriam was always full of frwolty , making mischief 
and poetry. She tried to break off the match between 
her sister, only I went myself and joined it on again.” 

Marian blushed painfully, and felt as if the new 
teacher must be looking at her with amazement. That 
foolish poem! Should she ever outgrow the mortifica- 
tion and disgrace of it ? Certainly not while Miss 
O’Neil lived to keep it before the public. 

“ The plaguy old parrot, I’ll stop her tongue,” said 
Keller, in a low voice, to Marian, who returned him a 


THE S TMPOSIUM. 


215 


grateful look. The time had come when she saw no 
reason to envy Judith the brother-love which had once 
seemed to be left out of her own lot. Keller was now 
her devoted champion and friend, and had been ever 
since she appeared to him that day in the attic, like a 
good fairy with a golden halo round her head, and 
dropped loving words, like balm^nto his sore heart. 
He came to her rescue now, though the way he did it 
may be open to objections. It was by setting Miss 
O’Neil to talk of her lovers, an imaginary host, which 
she marshalled forth occasionally to kneel at her shrine, 
and bewail her “ heart of stone.” 

Merriment ran ' high. These fabled lovers were the 
choicest fun in Quinnebasset. The naughty young 
people kept up a mathematical calculation as to the 
rate in which the number increased, and declared that 
Miss O’Neil had begun with six, and got up to thirty, 
cutting every lover in pieces five times — a slashing 
process, but perfectly harmless to ghosts. 

I do not uphold the Quinnebasset youth in this 
thing ; but if there was any excuse for them, it was in 
the satisfaction it gave the poor withered old crone. 
While she talked, she looked and felt herself a queen 
of society. And every shadowy lover she evoked and 
rejected was a clear gain, for he never dropped out of 
her memory afterwards, but helped to swell the list of 
the slain. 

She went to bed that night in charity with the whole 
world; and so ended the tea-drinking, or, as Fordyca 
Bailey classically called it, the symposium. 


216 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


THE FIRST LOVER. 


P UT it seems that while Miss O’Neil was thus 
) calling up the shades of lovers past, lovers pres- 
ent were improving the opportunity to whisper 
a few words in one another’s ears. At the close of the 
evening, Judith, looking strangely fluttered and half 
frightened, took Marian one side, and said to her, “ I’m 
going home with you to stay all night, aind Robert 
must go with us. I won’t have any one else.” 

“Very well,” replied Marian; “I’ll send Keller out 
of the way.” But what it meant she did not know. 

As she, and Robert, and Judith walked along the 
crisp road, — there was no sidewalk in winter, — Judith 
was perfectly mute, and to call attention from her, 
Marian talked with great volubility. 

“ What a handsome young man Mr. Bailey is ! And 
so well behaved ! I fancy him very much indeed.” 

“Do you? Well, I can’t say he is exactly my 
style,” returned Robert, and next moment, ashamed 
of himself, added, “ though I won’t deny he has the 
air of a gentleman.” 

“ Of course he wouldn’t be your style, unless he were 
as deep as the Pacific Ocean,” said Marian. “You 
are a dreadful critic, Robert. Do look back and see 


THE FIRST LOVER. 


217 


Keller. He is up to some mischief, I know, by the way 
he swings himself round.” 

Keller was sauntering a little behind with Mr. Bailey, 
saying confidentially and with animated gestures, — 

“ By the way, Bailey, you’re a stranger here, and I 
don’t know but I ought to say a word to you about 
these Quinnebasset girls. Don’t let it go any farther ; 
will you ? They’re the nicest creatures in the world ; 
but the fact is, just between ourselves, a fellow has to 
walk on eggs or they think he has serious intentions. 
The best girls in the world ; sensible, too ; but — well 
— rather too susceptible, as you may say. A word to 
the wise is sufficient. You understand, hey?” 

“ Why, yes, I think I do,” stammered young Bailey, 
looking, as well he might, a little surprised. “They 
don’t appear like that sort; but I’ll have my eye out 
and be careful. ’Twould be a confounded scrape, 
wouldn’t it, though, to enlist any of their affections ac- 
cidentally? Much obliged to you, Prescott, I’m sure.” 

“Well, you're a donkey,” thought Keller, chuckling 
behind his comforter. “Thought I’d sound you and 
see.” 

And ready to explode with suppressed laughter, he 
continued to expatiate upon this amiable weakness of 
the girls of Quinnebasset, which ought to be respected, 
he said, and by no means divulged to the unfeeling 
world. How the girls would have longed to box his 
ears if they had heard him! A more refined and intel- 
ligent set of young ladies could hardly be found in a 
New England village, as nobody was better aware than 
Keller; but a joke was sweet to his soul, and the temp- 
tation to sell a donkey not to be resisted. 


218 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“Now the deacon is sick, and you’re obliged to change 
your boarding-place, Bailey, I hope you’ll find one 
where there aren’t any girls ; I advise it as a friend.” 

And marching the new teacher up to Deacon Jud- 
kins’s door, Keller left him to his own reflections, and 
ran home, fairly weak with laughter. The girls had al- 
ready gone up stairs, but they could hear him chuckling 
to himself in the front hall, and going off in little bursts 
all the way to his chamber. 

“Marian,” said Judith, as they were disrobing for the 
night, “ I have such a strange thing to tell you. I was 
in the kitchen at Miss O’Neil’s, you know, putting up 
my basket, and Silas Hackett came out, and — and — ” 

Marian made an inarticulate response with her tooth- 
brush in her mouth. If she had only looked up and 
seen the bright spots burning in Judith’s cheeks, she 
would have felt more curiosity as to what was coming. 

“He said he — he — Why, Marian, did you ever 
think of such a thing as Silas Hackett’s caring for me — 
particularly ? ” 

Marian wheeled round, and levelled her tooth-brush 
at Judith. 

“What!” exclaimed she, staring in bewilderment. 

Judith stood combing out her long dark hair, and 
looking straight before her at the lamp, with a shy, tri- 
umphant sparkle in her eyes, somewhat at variance 
with the regretful tone of her voice. 

“Yes, it is nothing new, he says; and I’m afraid it’s 
very, very serious. What in the world shall I do with 
him, Marian ? ” 

Marian braced herself against the closet door before 
she ventured to reply. In the little interval since Ju- 


THE FIRST LOVER. 


219 


dith had first spoken, a change had passed over their 
relations to each other. A real live lover had come 
between them, investing the once familiar friend with a 
new and mysterious dignity. 

“Why, how did Silas happen to think of such a 
thing?” said she, at last. “He has always known you 
just as well as can be. Wasn’t it a funny idea, his start- 
ing up all at once, in this way? How did he look? 
What did he say?” 

Marian was not aware of it, but she spoke with some 
deference, as well as a slight shade of pique. In every- 
thing heretofore she and Judith had been equals; but 
here was something they could not share, something 
that might not be held as common property. 

“I don’t think I could tell you exactly,” replied Ju- 
dith, her eyes still fixed on the lamp. “ He looked very 
foolish indeed, and made some remark about the levee 
next week, what a nice moon there would be ; and right 
off upon that, told me he had been thinking of writing 
me a letter. ‘Ah!’ said I; and then I looked up in 
his face, and said, ‘ O ! — ’ Dear me, I don’t know how 
to repeat it, Marian ; but the truth is, this has been go- 
ing on for some time, though I didn’t really suspect it, 
or anything. He thinks I’m something wonderful, a 
great deal better than I really am.” And Judith gath- 
ered courage to move her eyes towards Marian, as she 
added, with a look of vast experience, “ That is always 
the way, you know.” 

“Yes, I suppose so. I don’t know anything about 
it,” was the meek reply. “ But, Judith, what could you 
say ? It is such a pity about this, for I am sure you don’t 
care for him, and it’s too bad to hurt his feelings.” 


220 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“ Hurt his feelings ! That’s a very mild way of put* 
ting it. Break his heart, you mean.” 

“No, I don’t — that’s all nonsense,” returned Marian, 
bluntly, as she unfastened her boots. “ Such things 
don’t happen nowadays as broken hearts. I guess 
Shakespeare knows. He says that men have died from 
time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for 
love.” 

Marian might not understand mankind, but she knew 
a little of the genus, second-hand, from Shakespeare. 

“Ah, but, Marian, Silas never cared for any one be- 
fore! He says it’s something he can’t account for, but 
so it had to be. And now the question is, what shall I 
say?” 

“Why, haven’t you said anything yet?” 

“No; I told him I’d think about it. I don’t know 
my own mind.” 

“Well, there!” exclaimed Marian, somewhat recov- 
ered from her first awe and humility. “I should think 
you’d know your own mind like a flash ; I should. If a 
young man were to come into that gate to say such 
a thing to me, I should have a feeling in one minute, 
whether it was to be yes or no.” 

So spoke Marian from the inmost depths of self-igno- 
rance. 

“ Wait till you have the trial of it,” returned Judith, 
from the sublime heights of experience. 

And so the girls talked on and on, their faces press- 
ing the same pillow, while the mercury .sank lower and 
lower, and Jack Frost embroidered the windows with 
etchings which shut out the cold moon and the ruddy 
Northern Lights. But, confidential as they were, they 


THE FIRST LOVER. 


221 


did not fully open their young hearts to each other: 
who ever did it yet ? “We are spirits clad in veils.” Ju- 
dith carefully covered up the fact that her first girlish 
fancy had been given to Pitkin Jones, a person on whom 
her friend looked with some contempt. She knew it 
was an idle dream, which ought never to have found its 
way into her head ; for the youth with ambrosial locks 
had plainly never spent any thoughts on her. 

“ O, no, I couldn’t talk to Marian about that, she is so 
much like a child in some things. She wouldn’t see 
how it was possible for me to care for a person who 
didn’t care for me. As if that weren’t the very bewitch- 
ment of it! or I begin to think it is. She’s too high- 
minded, or cold-hearted — which is it? And as I’ve 
kept the secret a whole year, I won’t lisp it now. 
More especially as I shouldn’t wonder if it was half im- 
agination, after all.” 

While Judith was thinking thus of the indifferent 
Pitkin, but talking only of the enamoured Silas, Marian, 
for her part, mused in this wise : — 

“ How strange it must be to have any one think of you 
in that way ! How beautiful ! But there is something 
about these things I do not exactly understand, and I 
presume I never shall. I wouldn’t say it to Judith, but 
in my French, the other day, I was struck with a remark 
of Corinne’s. She said she had a conviction that she 
should never be able to love anybody with her whole 
soul, and she was sorry. I have had the same convic- 
tion myself, ever since I can remember; or seems to me 
I have. But I couldn’t tell this to Judith: it would 
give her a chance to say , ‘ Of course you’ll never love 


222 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


anybody, if anybody never asks you to ! ’ She does feel 
a little, just a little, self-important” 

“Judith, what think now about being uninterest- 
ing, and people’s hardly noticing you are alive?” 

“I think the same,” replied Judith, serenely ; “this 
is an exception. But, honestly, dear, how do you like 
. Silas?” 

“ You needn’t ask my candid opinion,” laughed Mar- 
ian. “I’m not to be caught in that trap again. I sup- 
pose you expect me to say he’s a perfect jewel ; and so 
he is, if anybody fancies him.” 

And Marian went on with her unspoken thoughts : — 

“Young men are not very interesting, as a general 
thing, and I never could make up my mind to like any 
one that didn’t keep his finger-nails nice. I hope Ju- 
dith won’t talk any more, for my eyes are drawing to- 
gether.” 

“ But, Marian, as for fancying Silas, I must confess I 
always thought he was rather awkward. If it is any- 
thing, it’s his real worth, you know. And isn’t that 
better, after all, than elegance ? I’m sure Robert would 
think so. How do you suppose Robert would like it ? 
Marian, Marian, why don’t you speak? ” 

The only answer was Marian’s quiet, regular breath- 
ing, which told unmistakably that she was not in a con- 
dition just now to discuss affairs of sentiment. 

“What a girl!” thought Judith, rather mortified. 
“ I wonder if she has any heart, — except for her friends, 
of course.” 

And upon that fresh wonder she herself sailed off to 
sleep. 


THE POTATO PAN. 


223 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE POTATO PAN. 

Miss Tottenham. 

» EW YEAR’S EVE. My father and Keller 
have gone to a lecture, and I am sitting by the 
fire, with my feet upon the fender, and my 
writing-desk in my lap, while Benjie kneels on an ot- 
toman playing jack-straws. The large yellow flames 
are ascending from the sticks of wood, then darting back 
fitfully, as if they almost wanted to get out of their 
chimney-prison, but a gentle human pity drew them 
downward continually. 

It is a cheerful room in which I sit, for it is our own 
sitting-room at home, and home looks out from every 
object on which my eye rests. It is evening, and the 
German lamp burns with a soft light upon the centre- 
table. Even that mild radiance has a ray of home. 
The curtains are looped over the resters in the usual 
home-fashion, and the windows let in gleams of a clear 
moonlight evening, which is shining out of doors. At 
short intervals, I hear the merry sound of sleigh-bells 
ringing out very clearly in the still winter air, and now 
and then a few indistinct words reach my ears, spoken 
by merry sleigh-riders, who go whizzing by, with heart* 


224 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


gay enough to keep them warm, though it is so cold 
to-night. 

I am very happy, Miss Tottenham, and very much at 
home, with the moonlight looking in through the part- 
ed curtains ; with the soft beaming of the lamp, striv- 
ing to outdo the moon ; with the crackling, jolly fire, 
leaping up so aspiringly to outdo the lamp ; indeed, 
with the whole home altogether. 

Who would think that, with my dear mother “ lying 
in her white sleep,” I could ever be so happy in this 
house ? But I only think of her as staying away in 
that “high country,” where it may be she can look 
down on me and watch all I do. At any rate, whether 
she can see me or not, I shall tell her all about it by and 
by. How much I shall have to say, and how she will 
fold me in her arms and kiss me, and how I shall laugh 
and cry on her neck! It is such a weary, weary while 
since that morning she drove away, and I watched the 
little window in the back of the carriage till it was only 
a speck. She is the same woman she was then ; for 
waking in the likeness of Christ cannot change one’s 
identity. She has a gentle voice, and dark, wavy hair, 
and brown eyes, warm with love, or it is not my mother. 

Judith longs to know how heaven looks, and what 
the angels are doing; but I do not feel so at all — I 
want to keep it for a surprise. My only concern is 
whether I shall ever get there. I am glad it doesn’t 
depend upon poor me to build a bridge of my own good 
deeds, and try to walk to heaven on it, for it would let 
me through like a cobweb. No, it is only the infinite 
mercy that will ever take me there, and that I know 
more surely every day of my life. Strange, that those 


THE POTATO PAN. 


225 


gates, which the whole world could not move, should 
open from within just for the asking! 

This is the last night of the year. I ought to feel 
solemn, but I can’t. The people riding by in sleighs 
are going to Poonoosac to dance the New Year in. 
How many ways they do contrive for welcoming the 
poor young thing! They dance him in, shoot him 
in, and ring him in with wild bells. I can’t see the 
need of it; for to my mind, he is anything but bashful. 
He comes blustering along, blowing his fingers, as if he 
cared for nobody and nobody cared for him. I have a 
particular spite against him. He is always the means 
of my making a thousand new resolutions, which is 
about the same as telling myself a thousand lies. Now, 
that’s wicked. Just for the novelty of it, I mean to be- 
gin this year with only one promise, and see if I can 
keep it — the promise not to build air-castles. Between 
you and me, Miss Tottenham, I find I am beginning 
to have some of the silliest, flimsiest thoughts. Let’s 
stop it at once. Do you suppose Judith’s love-notions 
are catching ? I have been reading “The Marble Faun,” 
and day before yesterday, while I was feeding the hens, 
I fancied myself Hilda with the doves flying about my 
head. And where was Kenyon ? That wonderful com- 
ing man, I mean, whatever his name is? And how 
would he look when he came ? And all that nonsense. 
“He’ll have only one fault,” said I; “he’ll think too 
much of me ; but I’ll try to forgive him for that.” 

I suppose the hens were cackling on a high key; but 
I paid no attention, for I was thinking about that man 
of 6traw, and how he would beg me to go with him ; 
15 


226 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


when suddenly it occurred to me that I had made a 
resolve not to leave my father. 

“ Go away,” said I, bitterly, to my lover. “ Go away 
— it is of no use to urge me. My heart is yours, 
but duty compels me to stay with my father. Go, 
go!” 

I was flourishing the potato pan at him, and he was 
looking at me with a face of anguish, when my father 
rode into the barn, and I jumped and screamed, tipping 
over the pan, potatoes, johnny-cake, and all. How long 
I had been holding it out at arm’s length I don’t know. 
My father looked at me keenly, and said he, — 

“That’s a very good imitation of Judith. But mind 
you, my dear, day-dreaming won’t do for my daughter. 
If you’re out of business you’d better wash the barn 
floor.” 

He spoke in a laughing way ; but I know he meant 
it, for he said last night, after my geometry lesson, — 

“Well, dear, are you pretty busy these days?” 

“Why, yes, sir. Mrs. Nason, Tom, and I have been 
cutting meat for sausages, and to-morrow I’m to boil 
pumpkin, and bake brown bread and beans. This is a 
work-a-day world, papa, and I don’t get much time to 
be idle.” 

“ Glad of it,” said he. “ Keep moving ; that’s the 
way to grow. Did you ever hear the wise Frenchman’s 
three rules for happiness?” 

“No, sir. I don’t see what any one needs of rules; 
it’s happiness enough just to be alive.” 

“Some people think differently,” said my father; 
“ and the rules are worth remembering. The first is 

O 


THE POTATO PAN. 


227 


occupation, the second occupation , and the third and 
last is still occupation.” 

“ O,” said I, “ then I’ve been living by rule, papa, 
and didn’t know it.” 

“ Yes,” said he, laying his hand on my head, as he of- 
ten does, as if he were asking a silent blessing over it. 
“ Yes, daughter, I am glad there is a work in this world 
for you, as noble as ever a woman found to do — that 
of making home happy. But there is one thing I wish 
you to remember. Live in the present. Do the near- 
est duty, and don’t let your thoughts dwell too much 
upon dream-love and shadow-heroes.” 

I blushed crimson at that. How happened he to be 
so wise ? Was it my tipping over the potato pan ? 

“It is the most natural thing in the world, my child, 
that girls of seventeen should anticipate these matters ; 
and your father is the last person who would blot out 
of your life the beautiful experience of love which is to 
come by and by. But let it be of the Lord’s sending, 
Marian. Don’t soil the white page of the future with 
vain imaginations. It will be spread out before you, 
one line at a time ; read it as it comes.” 

“Yes, papa,” said I, not daring to look in his face. 

“ I will tell you a secret, my daughter. You are more 
likely to marry, and marry happily, if you think as little 
about the matter as possible. I have good reasons for 
what I say, but it is not necessary to give them now ; 
we have talked long enough on the subject, perhaps. 
The truth is, I see so much silly, idle sentimentality 
among girls of your age, that I wanted to throw out a 
little word of warning. My daughter mustn’t be senti. 


228 


THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER. 


mental! She must cherish no unquiet wish for bless- 
ings not yet ready for her, but try to say, — 

‘ Henceforth my one desire shall be, 

That He who knows me best should choose for me.’” 

Now, wasn’t that a queer way for papa to talk to me ? 
It makes my cheeks tingle when I think of it; but I’m 
glad he did it. I don’t think I have become what Miss 
O’Neil calls lacsadaisical yet; and now, as Thankful 
says, u I certain shan’t.” 

Mr. New Year, let me shake spiritual hands with 
you. Ugh ! how cold you are ! Here’s hoping 1 may 
keep my promise, and be able to look you in the face 
when you are dying of old age, twelve months from 
this time. 


LOVE-SHAKED. 


229 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“ LOVE-SHAKED.” 

%%UDITH entered the kitchen at Dr. Prescott’s 
one evening, with a look on her face which 
told that she had something to say. Her large 
dark eyes were unusually lustrous, and about her sensi- 
tive mouth played an uncertain smile, hovering, flicker- 
ing, dying out, and coming again. Tom sat by the 
stove splitting kindlings, while the milk, which he had 
brought in half an hour ago, stood on the drop-table, 
wdth its foam gradually settling, for like “ the quality 
of mercy,” it was “ not strained.” 

“ Where is Marian ? ” 

“ Don’t know. Hain’t seen her since I came in from 
milking.” 

J udith ran up the back stairs with remarkable speed. 
As she approached the door of Marian’s room she 
heard Benjie saying, in a querulous tone, — 

“ Don’t rub me very hard, Mamie ; I’m a little sore 
all over.” 

“ Come in,” said Marian, in answer to J udith’s 
knock. “ Why, I thought it was Pauline, the step was 
so light and quick. I’m giving little brother his Satur- 
day evening bath, and it seems as if I should never get 


230 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


all his sore fingers done up, and his little bruises taken 
care of.” 

“ Men have to bear everything,” burst forth- Benjie. 
“My skates are too big, and they wobble and fall 
me down on the ice, and then Hen Page keeps a-punch- 
in’ me so I can’t get up.” 

“ O, fie, little mannie ! ” said Marian, with a warning 
glance at Judith, who was on the point of laughing. 
“We keep a brave heart, you know, and don’t tell of 
our troubles, and then we forget them.” 

“ Men have worse times ’n women do, so now ! ” said 
Benjie, defiantly, as he slyly wiped his eyes on one of 
his bandaged fingers, and subsided into his flannel 
night-gown. “ I’m blacker ’n bluer ’n ever you was, 
Mamie, you bet.” 

Little brother was not usually allowed to talk slang ; 
but considering his present damaged condition, Marian 
prudently winked at his sins, and, dancing him off to 
his own room, put him to bed in a warm blanket. 

“Don’t you think Benjie is a very troublesome 
child?” said Judith, following her friend down stairs, 
to watch her strain the milk, and mix buckwheats for 
breakfast. 

“No; I’m sure I don’t!” was the quick reply. “He 
is delicate and sensitive, and needs a great deal of 
care ; but I love him all the better for that.” 

And as she spoke, Marian picked up the child’s cap 
from the kitchen floor, and hung it on its nail, with a 
motherly pat. 

“Well, I think you fuss over him more than you 
need to, dear ; and so does aunt Esther. But I must 


LOVE-SHAKED. 


231 


say you make him mind beautifully. How do you 
manage ? ” 

“I don’t manage ; I don’t know how. We love each 
other, and hate to hurt each other’s feelings, and that’s 
all there is about it.” 

Judith thought of her own little brothers at home. 
She had never been. harsh with them; her disposition 
was certainly more amiable than Marian’s, yet they did 
not love her and cling to her particularly. Why was 
it ? After all, it was rather nice that they didn’t. 

“I’ve been longing all day to see you,” said she, 
when they were at last in the sitting-room, and Marian 
had taken out her tatting. 

“ Have you ? ” said Marian* her little rosy finger-tips 
and almond-shaped nails flashing back and forth with 
the tatting-shuttle. 

“Yes,” returned Judith, folding her nerveless hands, 
which were rather sallow, and showed the veins too 
clearly. “Yes; for it’s all settled.” 

“Settled! How? What?” 

“I’m engaged.” 

Marian gave a diminutive scream, and dropped her 
work in her lap. “Why, Judith Willard, you told me 
only last week you didn’t care at all for Silas Hackett. 
Haven’t you changed your mind very soon ? ” 

There was a sudden drooping of Judith’s head. It 
was a very large head, and always seemed too heavy a 
responsibility for her slender neck. 

“I don’t know whether I’ve changed my mind or 
not, and that’s the worst of it,” sighed she. 

Marian fixed her eyes on Judith’s face in dumb sur- 
prise. A fine face it was, in spite of its moonlight pale- 


232 


THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER. 


ness, one yon would turn to look at a second time, 
and still it might not satisfy you entirely. There was 
thought in it, and feeling ; but something seemed to be 
lacking. The mouth, though sweet, was rather weak, 
perhaps. 

“You haven’t the least idea how I’ve puzzled my 
brains over this, Marian. I couldn’t eat or sleep till 
I’d made up my mind.” 

“What was Silas’s hurry?” asked Marian, coolly. 
Judith had never been able to make her comprehend 
the situation. 

“You talk like a child, Marian. Just as if I could 
keep him waiting forever.” 

It was not the first time since the advent of the new 
lover that the old friend had been called a child, and it 
did not please her very well. 

“ At any rate,” said she, with emphasis, “ Silas isn’t 
so old but he might wait a while, and I wouldn’t say 
‘yes,’ when I only meant ‘may be so.’ By and by 
you’ll change it to ‘ no,’ and then people will call you a 
flirt.” 

“ Marian Prescott, aren’t you ashamed to talk so to 
me ? As if I would break my word on any account, 
my sacred word ! Besides, I do love Silas very much.” 

“ O, you do, do you ? Then it’s all right.” 

“I mean I’m beginning to. I wondered and won- 
dered, you know, and couldn’t be sure, till, night before 
last, at the lecture, don’t you remember he passed right 
by me in the vestry, and walked home with Marie 
Smith? Well, I knew then, by the way I felt, that 1 
really did care for him, for I was as jealous as I 
could be.” 


LOVE-SHAKED. 


23a 


Marian looked relieved. Judith’s words seemed to 
have the true ring now, for she had heard that love 
and jealousy always went together. What if the girl 
did say last Monday she “ wished Si Hackett was in 
Botany Bay ” ? That was probably a good sign ; Mar- 
ian presumed it was. And, a little afraid of being 
snubbed again as a child, she sat in discreet silence, 
looking timidly at her friend, to see what she would 
say next. 

“Yes, I’m sure it’s all right,” continued Judith, rais- 
ing her chin with more confidence. 

“ I thought you were going to talk with Robert.” 

“O, I did, and he said nothing could have suited 
him better.” 

“ I knew he’d say that.” 

“Yes; and that was one reason — I mean, I was 
very, very glad to have Robert pleased. It isn’t every- 
body he likes, you know.” 

“And of course Silas is pleased too,” ventured 
Marian, thinking she must be safe in saying as much 
as that. 

Judith answered by a meaning smile, implying that 
words were too feeble to express Silas’s rapturous con 
dition. 

“ I don’t know, upon my word, what would have be- 
come of him if I’d said no.” 

Marian’s upper lip curled a little ; it was the worst 
fault with her mouth, that that upper lip did curl so 
easily. 

“Silas has a good constitution, Jude,” — this was 
what she longed to say, — “ and I guess ’twould take 
more than No to kill him.” 


234 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


But she tatted very fast, and said nothing ; and pres- 
ently, when Judith went on to repeat some of the 
young man’s words, and to hint at his gratitude and 
happiness, she let her work fall slowly out of her hands, 
and sat looking reverently at her friend, as a glow- 
ing worm might look at a star. 

“Perhaps men have died from time to time, and 
worms have eaten them, for love,” thought she. “ It is 
just the most beautiful thing! I should think Judith 
would feel perfectly happy ; but she doesn’t.” 

And the fact that Judith could be the object of such 
adoration, and not be in ecstasies, completed Marian’s 
astonishment. 

“ May I mention this to any one ? ” asked she, after 
a few moments of awe-struck silence. 

“ Certainly ; I’m willing, and of course Silas is,” re- 
plied Judith, arousing herself from a dream. 

Marian mentally resolved to tell her father and Kel- 
ler at the first opportunity. How amazed they would 
be ! It was only a few days ago that her father had 
spoken in such a patronizing tone about love affairs, as 
if they were things a long way off in the future, which 
“ my daughter must not think about yet ” ! And here 
was Judith, only eight months older, an engaged wo- 
man in good and regular standing. What would he 
say to that ? 

The doctor set down his coffee-cup suddenly, when 
he heard the news, but had the presence of mind to 
pass the sirup to Benjie. 

“ ‘ Saturday dreamed, and Sunday told,’ ” began 
Keller. 

“No, indeed!” returned Marian, triumphantly, from 


LOVE-SHAKED. 


235 


behind the coffee-urn. “There is no dreaming about 
this ; it’s a positive fact.” 

“Poor Si! He's a goner, then!” muttered Keller, 
under breath. “ Whew ! ” 

“ What do you think of it, papa ? ” asked Marian, stir- 
ring the cream, with a very mature air. 

“ I think Silas Hackett has made a fool of himself.” 

“Now, father!” 

“ Excuse me, daughter. You know I never did see 
Judith with your eyes. Silas Hackett is an enterpris- 
ing, sensible fellow, and I feel an interest in him, and 
wish him a better wife.” 

“ I’d as soon marry a baby as Jude,” put in Keller, 
with biting sarcasm. 

Marian’s cheeks burned indignantly, but she would 
not deign a glance at Keller. Nobody had asked his 
Opinion. 

“ I am surprised at both of them,” remarked the doc- 
tor, after a pause. “ I should think Silas had too much 
practical common sense to fancy Judith, and Judith 
not enough to fancy him.” 

“ O, father Prescott ! ” 

“ It never’ll amount to anything,” said Keller, de- 
lighted to take sides with his father. “Jude’s too 
slack-twisted to go through anything she undertakes. 
She always leaves off in the middle.” 

“ That from you ! ” Marian longed to say, for Keller 
never seemed to be aware of his own want of stability. 
But the daughter of the house was learning to avoid 
cutting remarks. 

“Let’s see — how old is Judith?” asked the doctor. 

“ Eighteen this month, papa ; and thinks she is old 


286 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


enough to know her own mind,” was the dignified 
reply. 

“Poor motherless child!” said Dr. Prescott, in a 
softened tone. 

And after that he finished his breakfast in silence, and 
nothing further was said by any one about the new en- 
gagement. Upon the whole, the announcement had 
not been as triumphant as Marian had expected. 

The winter had opened very gayly, but now it was 
likely to be rather dull. Keller, after Marian had 
nearly worn out her left forefinger making red shirts, 
suddenly tired of the idea of Wisconsin coal mines, 
and wouldn’t go. But when he saw Silas Hackett start- 
ing for the lake to fell timber, he was eager to follow. 
“ And by the way, it would be such a pity to waste the 
red shirts.” His father consented at last, perhaps with 
the secret hope that “tending sled” might reconcile 
the boy to the sad fate of going to college. 

Keller set out for the woods in high spirits, he and 
Silas clad in red shirts and striped blouses, and crack- 
ing jokes all the way to Tomhegan township. Very 
soon after, Robert went to Brunswick, to attend medi- 
cal lectures, and Pitkin Jones found business in an in- 
surance office in Hartford. 

Judith bore Silas’s absence with great fortitude. In- 
deed, she told Marian she believed she liked him better 
when he was away from her, for then she could idealize 
him, and forget some of his peculiarities which annoyed 
her. Marian thought this rather odd; but then Judith 
herself was odd, and everything about these things was 
a mystery to inexperienced young Marian. 

Aunt Esther did not like the engagement, and said 


LOVE-SHAKED. 


237 


Judy would make “a poor stick for a farmer’s wife.” 
The child had always weighed on her mind, and to 
cure her of natural lack of “ gumption,” and teach her 
general housework, the good woman had scolded hard 
enough, if that were all. She had scolded, and Tid and 
Mate had grumbled ; but somehow they three always 
did the drudgery — never Judith. Not that Judith 
really meant to shirk, but while she was getting ready 
to do a thing it was already half done by some one 
else. This was a great pity, for Dr. Prescott was right 
when he said, if her mind had been more occupied it 
would never have become so morbid. It was she who 
needed the Frenchman’s three rules for happiness, not 
Marian. 

Aunt Esther was so “ ’palled ” at the thought of an 
engaged girl’s not knowing how to make a decent 
loaf of bread, thaj, she scolded harder than ever, to 
atone for lost time. But scolding had a bad effect on 
Judith: it drove her to the solitude of her own cham- 
ber, away from uncongenial people, there to brood over 
her wrongs, and sometimes give vent to her wounded 
feelings in verse. Some of Judith’s poetry had the real 
poetic fire, for uninteresting as I fear she seems to you, 
she had fine powers of mind, and with proper training 
might have made a very different girl. 

She told Marian she knew it was her destiny never 
to be happy, though she thought very likely she might 
one day be famous. There were thoughts growing in 
her brain which she should give to the world, and in 
return the world would give her a name. 

“ Don’t talk so,” said Marian ; “ it makes me shiver 
to hear you. Just as if you were going up on a moun- 


238 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


tain to turn into a statue ! Besides, what will become 
of poor Silas while you are up there ? ” 

“As true as you live, I forgot there was any such 
person,” replied Judith, with a start, like a medium 
coming out of a trance. “I tell you, Marian, a girl 
can’t always keep it in mind that she’s engaged.” 

“No, I suppose not,” returned Marian, doubtfully. 
Aunt Esther was not the only one who disapproved 
of the engagement. Dr. Prescott frowned upon it too. 
He said if Judith would throw off her masterly inac- 
tivity, and try to fit herself for a good wife, he might 
approve of it ; but instead of that, she appeared to be 
“ love-shaked,” walked like one in a dream, and fed her 
mind on novels. He did not like her influence over 
Marian, and perhaps nothing but his respect for Robert 
kept him from laying down pretty strict rules against 
the intercourse between the two girls. 

“What do you think?” said Judith, coming into the 
kitchen one morning, when Marian, with a blue sweep- 
ing cap on, was stirring up a cottage pudding. “We 
are going to have a boarder! ” 

“ A boarder ? Who is it ? I desire to know.” 

“The new teacher, Mr. Fordyce Bailey,” replied 
Judith, with some animation. “Deacon Judkins is so 
sick he had to go somewhere, and aunt Esther thought 
we’d better take him. She likes him; she says he 
knows how to hold his tongue.” 

“But when he does talk, Jude, it’js in Johnsonese — 
such big words as symposium and coruscation. And 
then he parts his hair in the middle. The more I see 
him, the less I like him,” said Marian, swinging open 
the oven door. 


LOVE-SHAKED. 


239 


“Nonsense! I presume he has a widow’s peak, and 
is obliged to part his hair in the middle. I hope that 
little remark Robert made the night of the O’Neil sym- 
posium hasn’t turned you against him, child.” 

Marian thrust her pudding into the oven disdainfully. 
Did Judith think she couldn’t form her own opinions 
without the aid of other people’s brothers ? 

“But I don’t see why aunt Esther takes him. I 
should think he would interfere with her making rag 
carpets.” 

“Well, Marian, between ourselves, I suspect it’s be- 
cause we have such quantities of meat laid down in 
snow, and she’s expecting a February thaw.” 

Marian smiled back a look of intelligence. Being a 
housekeeper herself, and knowing aunt Esther’s frugal 
turn of mind, she saw the full force of the remark. 

“I am rathef glad he’s coming,” yawned Judith. 
“ He’ll help pass away the winter. I know you don’t 
mind it, but Quinnebasset is dreadfully dull.” 

“ The winter is nearly gone,” said Marian, thought- 
fully cutting up pieces of butter on a platter, ready for 
the steak she was about to broil. She was wonder- 
ing whether she might not find it disagreeable to be 
continually meeting the new teacher, whenever she 
ran into Mr. Willard’s. The idea of staying away 
from Judith on his account did not occur to her; 
though possibly it might if she had known the warn- 
ing Keller had given the young man concerning the 
Quinnebasset girls ! 


240 


THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


“worse than none.” 



J^ORDYCE BAILEY was small and dapper, 
dressed with great care, and sported a cane and 


a wise-looking pair of spectacles ; had hair the 
color of a blood-orange, parted it> nearly in the middle, 
and was letting it grow out to a poetical length down 
his neck. He was more than straight; he bent back- 
ward. He had an uncomfortable habit of staring you 
full in the face, which was rather embarrassing, but in 
other respects he seemed to be very well bred. He 
had divers gifts of mind, but no common sense ; good 
principles, good habits, a “ faculty for government,” and 
some book knowledge ; yes, but a “handful of common 
serTse is better than a bushel of learning;” and a hand- 
ful he hadn’t, or even a thimbleful. But something 
else he did have, which made him quite as comfortable, 
and that was self-esteem. Coleridge tells us of a man 
who thought so much of himself that he almost took 
off his hat whenever he said, “ I.” Mr. Bailey might 
have been the man. 

He came from Boston, and brought such a knowledge 
of metaphysics that Mr. Hinsdale couldn’t speak before 
him. He also understood “ elective affinities,” and 
everything else that is worth knowing. 


WORSE THAN NONE. 


241 


Aunt fesiher was mistaken when she thought him so 
quiet. She had seen him but once, and that was at a 
parish gathering, or sociable, where he was taking notes 
privately to send to a newspaper. He was a great 
talker ; but Keller Prescott’s alarming description of 
the Quinnebasset girls had put him on his guard. He 
knew he was very fascinating, but he didn’t mean to 
be ; he wanted to walk in the straight path of duty, 
and break as few hearts as possible. So you see he 
was really conscientious. It would have been safest to 
shut himself up entirely, but that might be bad for his 
health ; and if people would fall in love with him, just 
by meeting him at parties, he didn’t see how he could 
be to blame ; they must take their own risks. Lately, 
he had been studying too hard, was out of health, and 
out of pocket, and glad to accept the offer from his 
uncle Judkins of a country school for the winter. But 
then, when he came he did not know what soft-hearted 
girls there were at Quinnebasset. 

Now, this was the sort of young man who had come 
to Mr. Willard’s and taken possession of the guest- 
charfiber, with the black-walnut furniture and new soap- 
stone stove. He was very good-natured, had no ob- 
jection to fried pork, and helped Tid and Mate with 
their algebra in the evening. At first, he was rather 
shy of Judith, out cf regard to her peace of mind ; but 
when he heard of her engagement, he thought it safe 
to ask her to join his class in astronomy. He was quite 
at home in the stars, and enjoyed marshalling his pu- 
pils into the highway, and pointing out the constella- 
tions with his bamboo cane. When Judith proposed 
Marian as one of the class, Mr. Bailey doubted whether 
16 


242 THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 

it was just the thing, for he saw she blushed easily, and 
must, therefore, be very susceptible. But he could not 
say this to Judith, — modesty forbade, — and as there 
seemed to be no other good and sufficient objection, 
he had to let her come. Woful mistake ! For after 
that half a dozen other girls of her age claimed the 
same privilege. They did not attend the district 
school; they were too old for that; and, but for this 
astronomy class, poor Mr. Bailey could have kept clear 
of them, and not damaged their budding affections. 
But here he was, an irresistible young man, just out of 
college, surrounded by a bevy of admiring young ladies, 
who hung on his words, and were evidently half in love 
at the very first lesson. It was a trying position, es- 
pecially for a young man with such unflinching ideas 
of duty. The girls simply thought him pompous and 
disagreeable, and laughed among themselves at Marian’s 
off-hand description. 

“ Mr. Bailey belongs to the aristocracy — he makes 
you feel as if you made soap for a living ! ” 

Still, they had no idea how enormously Conceited he 
really was. He proved to be a good teacher, and was 
persuaded to take a private school in the spring, which 
everybody attended, academy girls and all. 

Marian had always been in the habit of running into 
Mr. Willard’s at any hour of the day, and went still 
oftener after Mr. Bailey came, on account of the as- 
tronomy lessons. In the girlish simplicity which always 
belongs to seventeen,' or always ought to, she never 
thought of such a thing as his taking her calls to him- 
self, especially as she really disliked him, in spite of her 
efforts to the contrary. 


WORSE THAN NONE. 


243 


“ But, then,” as she said to Judith, “ I mean to treat 
him politely, if it half kills me, and perhaps I shall feel 
better towards him. You know we tried being kind 
to poor O’Neil, and now she doesn’t seem half so dis- 
agreeable to us as she did.” 

Judith said, for her part, she didn’t see but Mr. Bai- 
ley was nice enough ; why not ? 

“ That’s just as anybody thinks,” returned Marian ; 
“ but here he comes. I hope I can slip off without his 
seeing me.” 

But Mr. Bailey made such rapid progress with his 
little cane, that the girls had not turned the corner be- 
fore he met them face to face. Marian greeted him 
with a faint smile, followed by a blush of shame just 
for thinking how hard the smile came. The smile 
might not have frightened the youth so much, but the 
blush was perfectly appalling. What did that girl 
mean by blushing every time she saw him ? What did 
she mean by putting herself so much in his way, and 
at the same time seeming so shy of him, never speaking 
unless he spoke to her, and then only in monosyllables? 
He had reason to think the girls in this country village 
were all very susceptible ; but hadn’t he seen from the 
first that Marian was the most so of all ? 

“ The feeling is deeper m her case, for she sees more 
of me than the others do. I wonder if the doctor no- 
tices it. Fathers are rather blind in such matters. 
But if he has noticed it, I hope he doesn’t blame me,” 
thought the conscientious young man, as he marched 
A ip Mr. Willard’s staircase, with a groan. “I don’t see 
Vhy I was made so fascinating,” said he, addressing the 


244 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


looking-glass, which cast back the cruel reflection of a 
perfect Adonis with fists clinched. 

To calm his excited feelings Mr. Bailey took a stroll 
in the graveyard. If I did not know him myself, per- 
sonally, I should never dare record what follows, for it 
almost surpasses belief. But, girls, such a man as this 
does exist, and I have seen him. Marian may give the 
story in her own words. 

Miss Tottenham. 

March 15. I don’t believe I can tell it. My face is 
on fire, my soul, too ! I have sat here, shaking with 
laughter, and at the same time so ashamed that I don’t 
dare look in the glass. 

That Mr. Bailey! That little red-headed goose! 
To think he should have thought — Why, I was walk- 
ing in the graveyard, just to see if I could find some 
moss, up in one corner, — there’s always some there 
when the snow leaves a bare spot, — and in he came, 
as if he was owner of the grounds, and began to “ beau 
me ” round among the tombs. I stood it as well as I 
could. He talked about death and eternity, and seemed 
to be trying to solemnize my mind ; but, if you’ll be- 
lieve it, I got to laughing ! I suppose it was seeing 
that cane dance back and forth, pointing out the in- 
scriptions on the gravestones, as if he were teaching 
me my letters. 

I hoped he wouldn’t notice, for my head was turned 
away, and I wasn’t shaking much ; but he stopped in 
the middle of “ Thanatopsis,” and said he, — 

“Miss Marian, you would not laugh if you were in a 



/J l\\ 


IIHIIIm. 
ini iiuii, 


JOHN ANDREW Si 


IN THE CHURCHYARD. Page 244 



































































fc 


















WORSE THAN NONE . 


245 


sane state of mind. Poor child ! And to think I 
should be the cause of it ! ” 

I thought his feelings were wounded, of course, 
though I had never supposed he was sensitive before. 

“Forgive me, sir; I didn’t mean to,” said I, steady- 
ing myself against a gravestone, and feeling dreadfully 
ashamed. 

“ Poor, poor child ! it is I who should apologize,” 
said he, patting the crown of my hat. “Your nerves 
are quite unstrung. Your sweet, girlish nature — ” 

I wish I could remember the precise words ; but it 
was something about “ your sweet, girlish nature, poor, 
'poor child ! and your young susceptibilities awakened 
too soon, to be rudely crushed and torn.” 

I had no idea what he meant ; but it sounded so queer 
that I giggled right out. 

“ I must go home,” said I ; “my father will be want- 
ing his supper.” 

“ Stay,” said Mr. Bailey, swinging his cane. “ Now 
that I have begun to speak upon this interesting and 
delicate subject, I think I ought to finish. I may never 
have the courage again. Don’t let it pain you, dear 
child, that I — I — can read, and, as I may say, intu- 
itively understand your feelings.” 

“Sir?” said I. 

“ DorUt blush so, Miss Marian. Our feelings are in- 
voluntary — we are not to blame for them. Love 
comes to every one sooner or later. 

‘ A mighty pain to love it is, 

And ’tis a pain that pain to miss,’ &c., &c.” 

“ I don’t know, at all, what you mean,” said I, run- 


i 


246 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


ning away from him ; for I was afraid he was going to 
propose on the spot, though it seemed a preachy way 
to begin. But he followed and cornered me against a 
gravestone. 

“ Miss Marian,” said he, as solemn as a death’s head, 
“ did you ever fancy you had waked a responsive chord 
in my heart ? ” 

“No, sir,” said I; “I never thought of such a thing. 
But I must go home now, and get my father’s supper.” 

He took my hand ; but I snatched it away. If he 
was trying to make love to me, I thought I had had 
about enough of it; but I was in such a fit of laughter 
that I couldn’t stop myself to save my life. 

“ Don’t be offended, dear nervous child. I have seen, 
I could not help seeing, the workings of your suscep- 
tible young heart; but the knowledge has never for 
one instant lowered you in my esteem. Scamp should 
l be if it had!” 

“Sir?” said I. I thought he meant — well, I don’t 
know what I thought; but not the real thing. No, I 
never dreamed of that. 

“I am the one to blame,” said he; “but- really, I 
have tried not to attract you. I am not such a villain 
as to wish to gain the fresh affections of a little girl 
like you, just to throw them away. If I am fascinating 
to your sex, it is really because I can’t help it, dear! 
You are a charming, unsophisticated child, and I am 
interested in you ; but I cannot, cannot return your 
feelings. Besides that, I am not in a situation to 
marry. And the sooner you know it, my dear girl, 
the better.” 

Why, Miss Tottenham, the man thought I was in 


WORSE THAN NONE. 


24 7 


love with him ! That was what he meant! I was so 
taken by surprise that I believe I screamed. Really,, 
I don’t know what I did ; only it seems to me I ran 
right round one of the graves, and then whirled about 
and “made a cheese.” The idea of it! In love with 
Fordyce Bailey, when I can’t bear even the squeak of 
his boots! 

“Mr. Bailey,” said I, “let me go by you, sir; I want 
to go home.” 

“ Poor, poor child ! ” said he, holding me by the 
wrists. I know he thought I was a little crazy. 

“Let me go!” cried I; “my — father — wants — 
his — supper ! ” 

“But try to calm yourself, first, my dear girl! Was 
I too harsh with you — too abrupt? Will you forgive 
me? I meant it for your good.” 

I could have pulled out every spear of his hair. 

“Forgive you?” said I. “I forgive you for being 
the greatest fool that ever lived in this world. But 
my father won’t forgive you, sir. When he knows 
what you’ve been saying to me, sir, he’ll — I don’t 
know what he’ll do. Will you let me go ?” 

But by that time I was crying so hard I wasn’t fit 
to be seen in the streets. Mr. Bailey was frightened,, 
and asked if he shouldn’t go for some peppermint. 

“Yes, go,” said I ; “’twill be better than peppermint 
to get you out of my sight.” 

That was just the way I talked; but I’ll leave it to 
Judith if I haven’t always been as respectful to him 
Defore as if he was the president. Now, I was so ex- 
asperated I didn’t care what I said. 

It was the longest while before the man would be* 


248 


THE DOCTOR S DAUGHTER. 


lieve I was telling the truth, and wasn’t in love with 
him. Did you ever hear of such a thing? Say, did 
you ever? It all came of my going to Judith’s so 
much, and his being such a fool ! 

“ I never was in love with any one in my life,” said 
I. “My father would think it very improper for a girl 
of my age. And certainly I don’t care any more about 
you than I do about a toad.” 

I believe I was crazy, or I shouldn’t have said that. 
I thought he looked mortified then, though I doubt if 
it’s a possible thing. He told me he felt relieved of a 
great burden, and I told him I was sorry he had troubled 
himself so much. 

He wanted me to promise I wouldn’t mention what 
he had said ; but I wouldn’t promise not to tell my 
father, though I hadn’t any idea I really should tell 
him. 

It seemed as if I should die of shame all the way 
home, going by people’s windows ; but I kept saying 
over to myself, “Who ever heard of anybody’s dying 
in one day ? ” 

“ Why,” said my father, coming along to the door 
with open arms, “ what ails my yellow-haired little 
girl?” 

And I forgot how hungry he must be, and put my 
head on his shoulder, and told him the whole thing. 
I never saw him so angry before. He said it was “un- 
paralleled impudence,” and Mr. Bailey was a “ scatter- 
wit,” and a “swell-head.” 

“ O, father,” said I, “ it makes me feel as mean as that 
poem Judith and I wrote about Pauline. I wouldn’t 
have Pauline know this for anything. She would say, 


WORSE THAN NONE. 


249 


as she did then, that I have ‘no delicacy and no dis- 
cretion.’ She’d think I must have done something 
very improper. Have I, papa? Ought I to have staid 
away from Judith’s, just because he was there?” 

“No,” said he, setting his teeth together; “the out- 
rageous ninny!” 

“And, papa, you don’t think any worse of me now 
than you did before? I’m so afraid of not being 
respectable, you know.” 

“Any worse of you, darling? No: you’re just what 
a child should be, artless and unconscious; and that 
jackanapes of a Bailey ought to pay dearly for putting 
such ideas in your head.” 

“Papa, you keep calling him names — do you know 
it?” 

“Yes, yes, so I do; and it’s very undignified. But 
the idea of my little girl’s being so insulted brings out 
the old Adam ! I’m glad you’ve told me, though. 
You’ve no mother to talk with, and I hope, little Mar- 
ian, you’ll always come to papa. Young creatures, 
like you, mustn’t try to bear their little troubles alone.” 

“You don’t call this a little trouble, papa? O, you 
can’t mean so ! ” 

Then my father laughed. 

“ See here, Marian ; you and I are both foolish to 
take it so seriously. It is really a capital joke. I’ve 
heard of a man’s asking a woman to love him, — that’s 
a common thing, — but never in my life before of a 
man’s asking a woman not to love him ! This Bailey 
is an original genius; he has made you what I should 
call an anti-offer.” 

“O, papa, I wouldn’t have Judith know it for the 
world!” 


250 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


v What, your intimate friend ? I should think you 
would wish to put her on her guard, — she may have 
to go through the same ordeal herself.” 

“Why, father, you forget she’s engaged! I don’t 
want her to know; for I — I’m afraid she’ll look down 
on me, as very inferior. She’s only eight months older 
than I, and engaged to be married ; and here am I, 
papa — I’ve not only never had an offer, but I’ve just 
had what’s a great deal worse than none ! ” 

“ Marian, I’d like to box your ears.” 

“ I know it sounds silly, papa, and I’m talking rattle- 
ty-bang; but there’s honest truth in it, too. You 
wouldn’t believe it sets Judith up with all the girls 
to be engaged younger than the rest, — but it does. 
O, you can’t understand girls’ foolishness, father!” 

“ I’ll try to, dear, for your sake,” said he, in a very 
different tone, and kissing me tenderly. “ Poor mother- 
less child ! ” His voice always trembles when he says 
that, and now it broke down completely. “Tell me, 
do young ladies count their lovers, and boast of them, 
as Indians do of scalps?” 

“ Why, father, what an idea ! ” 

“I happened to think of it, because I overheard a 
frizzly-headed girl, the other day, saying to another 
girl, ‘ How many offers have you had ? I’ve had nine !’ 
Perhaps she carries them round, signed and sealed, 
strung on a chain, dangling from her neck; what do 
you suppose ? ” 

“Father, where did that girl live?” 

“At Poonoosac.” 

“Well, I don’t believe there’s a girl at Quinnebasset 
that would have talked so, unless it’s Naomi Giddings, 


WORSE THAN NONE. 


251 


Still they would all feel dreadfully if they never, never 
should have offers, you know, and should live to be as 
much as thirty years old ! ” 

“Ah! But, Marian, one of the most charming 
women I ever knew lived to the great age of forty, 
and boasted that she had never had a lover. She 
might have had dozens, but didn’t see any one she 
fancied, and was so high-minded and delicate, that she 
always took care to prevent her gentleman friends from 
coming to the point; and they understood her, and 
blessed her for it in their hearts.” 

“ She couldn’t have stopped them if they’d been like 
Mr. Bailey.” 

“I suppose not, dear. Well, as I was saying, per- 
haps times have changed ; but in my day, this aforesaid 
lady was greatly respected. And for my part I think 
better of her this minute than I do of the little witch 
who carries nine offers dangling from her watch-chain. 
If that girl ever marries, it will be a crooked stick. 
All this flirting comes of empty brains, Marian, empty 
brains. If I ever catch you at it, I shall set you to 
washing the barn floor.” 

“You needn’t be alarmed, papa; I don’t know how 
to flirt. But I do know how to make cream toast, and 
I’ll have some ready before you starve.” 

Then I ran off, ever so light-hearted, and opened a 
can of peaches to celebrate my anti-offer. My father 
thinks I’m just as respectable as ever, and I hope you 
do, too, Miss Tottenham ; but I haven’t got used to it 
yet, and don’t know what I think myself. 


252 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


CHAPTER XXX. 


AUNT HINSDALE PUZZLED. 


Miss Tottenham. 


March 18. 

LONG letter from Keller. He says it’s “reg- 
ularly jolly ” up there. After the last storm 
the snow was so deep in some places that the 
horses couldn’t walk, and had to be lashed on to the 
sleds like sacks of meal, and the men hauled them 
through with their show-shoes on. “Turn about is 



fair play,” says Keller. 

Don’t I wish I was a boy, and could go “ gumming ” 
with him and Silas ? Only it doesn’t seem proper to 
do it Sundays. If a tree is too high to climb, they cut 
it down without mercy ; or sometimes they use long 
poles with pieces of iron stuck in the end, to scrape off 
the gum, while they stand under the trees and catch it 
as it falls. 

Silas has been swamping, that is, cutting a road 
through the woods for the men. He is as strong as 
Samson; but I know Judith would like it better if he 
would study law. She says people in Boston look 
down on farmers. I suppose “people in Boston” 
means Fordyce Bailey. Now I’d as lief Keller would 
be a farmer as anything else, if he’d only stay so. But 


AUNT HINSDALE PUZZLED. 


253 


you might as well think of a mocking-bird’s keeping to 
one tune. He says Lowell is right: “No man is born 
into-the world but his work is born with him,” and he 
thinks (just this minute) it’s his business to be a lum- 
berman ; only he almost wishes he were chopping or 
scaling, instead of tending sled ! The work is hard, for 
he has to help oxen pull the logs on to the sled side- 
wise, for other oxen to haul, and sometimes the logs 
strike out and hit him ; and once he got such a punch 
in the side that he “ came within three fourths of an 
inch of fainting.” But this he wrote on a private slip, 
marked “confidential,” and added, — 

“ Tell Jude she ought to write Si. He doesn’t say 
anything, but he’s got the blues, I know. She ought 
to write every week; length no objection. By the 
way, I mistrust Si doesn’t like Bailey’s boarding there. 
Bailey’s a donkey. I’ve set off the Quinnebasset girls 
to him, told him they were easy to fall in love; and he 
took in the bait like a hornpout, and is half scared out 
of his wits. Don’t let the girls know; this was a great 
joke, but they might not see it. I wouldn’t have 
Marie get hold of it; she thinks I’m awful, any way.” 

There, Miss Tottenham, now you perceive the origin 
of that scene in the graveyard. I wish my father could 
know. 

But the postscript of that confidential slip was so 
precious, it left a warm feeling at my heart for hours. 

“Good by, blessed old Molly. I’m a bad lot; but 
when I forget what you did for me a year ago last 
winter, my memory will be rather shrivelled up. It 
isn’t every girl would borrow money out of her wed- 
ding gown to help a reprobate like me. You’re a reg 


■254 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


ular little pickle, and that’s a fact. I’ve got a plan in 
my head to talk over with Bob, that will bring you 
back every penny. Glad father didn’t hear of that 
scrape. You’re as deep as Jacob’s well, and I’m not 
afraid of your telling. Queer, when you used to be 
such a case for letting things slip off the end of your 
tongue.” 

You see by this, Miss Tottenham, that I gave Keller 
some of my own money to get him out of James 
Works’s clutches. Since Keller himself mentioned it 
to Pauline, I don’t mind if you know it. He would 
have gone to sea if it hadn’t been for me, and I’ve 
always felt so thankful for dear mother’s sake, that I 
had the power to keep him at home. What if I did 
“ take it out of my wedding gown ” ! I don’t see what 
girls with left-handed offers want of wedding gowns ! 
Of course Keller can’t return the money, and I never 
expected he would. 

I haven’t seen Mr. Bailey yet. Judith thought it 
strange I didn’t go last night to recite my astronomy 
lesson. Guess she’d have thought it stranger yet if 
she’d known why I didn’t ! My father’s going with me 
next Thursday evening, and then going after me. By 
that means I shall manage to appear respectable ; and 
after a while I shan’t feel as I do now about meeting 
the lady-killing Fordyce. Thank Heaven, I have a 
father to take care of me. He is getting to be father 
and mother too. 

March 20. I’ve done something dreadful. My self- 
esteem is all gone. I feel a wrinkle coming in my fore- 
head. Last night we had what I call a severe attack 
of company, and I was worried out of my senses ; that 


AUNT HINSDALE PUZZLED. 


255 


was the beginning of it. Uncle and aunt Hinsdale, and 
three cousins and cousinesses, to tea, and the blanc- 
mange ran like porridge, and the cake had collapsed 
in the middle. Then, after tea, Mrs. Page to consult 
my father about some new developments in her liver. 
She had just sighed herself out of the house, and I 
was having a chat in the corner with uncle Charles, 
when aunt Marian came along and sat down beside us. 
I enjoy uncle Charles when I can get him alone; 
and many is the good talk we’ve had about 
mother. I can say things to him I can’t say to my 
father for fear of calling up that look of undying 
sorrow. Uncle Charles is my uncle-confessor, and 
listens to all my wicked feelings, and leaves me soothed 
and happy. He is full of the love of Christ, and just the 
best preacher and dearest man ; but auntie never ought 
to have been his wife. Aunt Filura says so too. How 
does that woman contrive to make you feel so uncom- 
fortable ? She looks as if she considered you to blame 
about something, and you get to wondering what it is, 
or I do, till I forget the very thing I was going to say. 

She set the heel of her stocking, and then asked me 
if I made any oilnut pickles last summer. As if I 
could remember to watch the trees all the time ! The 
next question was, “ What luck with the soft soap ? ” 

I never should have thought of making it if it hadn’t 
been for her. Mamma never made any ; but, to please 
aunt Hinsdale, I had Mrs. Nason set up what you call 
a leach-barrel week before last. 

“Auntie,” said I, “the soap wouldn’t come, and Mrs. 
Nason set it out in the shed, where the sun shines part 
of the day, hoping the ley would eat the grease ; but 


256 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


the ley hadn’t force enough, and a dog came along and 
ate the grease. I told Mrs. Nason I was glad; the 
grease was eaten, and wasn’t that all she wanted ? ” 

Aunt Hinsdale didn’t see any joke in such a waste of 
property ; she never does see jokes ; and uncle Charles 
has to laugh for both of them. He shook his sides 
over my soap, and I was just getting so I could 
meet auntie’s eyes without flinching, when suddenly 
she went along to the centre-table, to my writing-desk, 
and said she, — 

“ This is the place where you keep your little fortune 
— is it, Marian ? ” 

She did not mean any harm ; but since I have spent 
two hundred dollars of that money, I don’t like to hear 
about my “little fortune.” My face flamed, and of 
course everybody stopped talking and looked straight 
at me. And upon that, auntie added, as an after- 
thought, — 

“ Please let me look at the secret drawer. Where 
do you touch the spring ? ” 

I knew then it was all over with me. It wasn’t two 
seconds before she had those government bonds in her 
lap, and was counting them. 

“ One, two, three. Why, where are the others?” 

It was of no use to pretend not to hear, for auntie 
never lets anybody off. 

“I had a use for them,” said I in a low voice, with 
the room so still you could have heard a pin drop. 

My father looked amazed, but said nothing. I knew 
he would wait till everybody was gone before asking 
questions ; and aunt Hinsdale was too well bred to 
pursue the subject, though her eyes never stopped 


AUNT HINSDALE PUZZLED. 


257 


following me with an inquiring gaze, as much as to 
say,— 

“ Child, child, what have you done with that 
money ? ” 

She gave it to me out and out, for my unfortunate 
name, and I had a perfect right to spend it as I 
chose; still it’s very natural she should feel an interest. 
A girl of seventeen isn’t supposed to have any sense, 
and perhaps she thinks I used the bonds for curl- 
papers. 

“ Marian,” said she, in the entry, — and Sarah heard 
her, too, — “ with all your faults I always gave 
you credit for being open-hearted. I do hope you are 
not growing up secretive ; that’s so disagreeable.” 

I’d like to know who is more secretive than her 
Sarah ! 

I dreaded to have the front door close, for my father 
went right to poking the fire, and I knew something 
was coming. 

“Well, Marian, what does this mean?” 

“O, papa, please don’t ask me. It was long, long 
ago I spent that money. I couldn’t go to you for ad- 
vice. ’Twas right, and I’ve never been sorry, papa; 
but, any way, I had to do it ; and please don’t ask me.” 

My father looked me right in the eye, and said 
he,- 

“ F or shame on Keller ! ” 

“Why, how did you know that?” 

I said it before I thought. I took it for granted he 
knew the whole thing. It was too late then to take it 
back. I never said another word, but I had the same 
as told him the money had gone to pay Keller’s debts. 
17 


258 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


O, Miss Tottenham, that boy trusts me so entirely, and 
now I have betrayed him ! 

March 21. Horrible! Horrible! Keller has met 
with a serious accident! As he was loading a sled, 
one of the logs hit him a blow which threw him over 
and broke his leg. The pain was so great, that he did 
not have his senses for some time. They laid him on 
a sled, and took him down to Monson, to a doctor, to 
have the bones set; but he is in a bad condition. It is 
worse than a common broken leg ; it is a compound 
fracture. Silas Hackett wrote the letter, and sent a 
man with it who could come faster than the stage. Of 
course my father will go up to Monson at once ; and 
what do you think ? Keller sends for me to go too ! 
Not Pauline, but me. Silas says he won’t go to sleep 
till I get there. Poor old darling! I wish I could 
take him in my arms and rock him! Pauline won- 
dered if there wasn’t some mistake in the letter, and I 
know her husband thinks Keller is out of his senses, or 
he couldn’t have asked for me instead of Pauline. But 
Silas says his head is “level,” thank you, sir; and 
I’m going. The travelling is the very worst; but what 
of that ? 

My father will come back and leave me up there with 
Keller. He, and Benjie, and Tom will go to Pauline’s 
for their meals. How long I shall stay will depend 
upon how long I’m needed. I shall take you with me 
in my carpet-bag, Miss Tottenham, for I find you’re 
good for nervousness. 


UP COUNTRT. 


259 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


UP COUNTRY. 



Miss Tottenham . 

March 23. 

)E got here alive, though there was one time 
when it didn’t seem possible. Since the 
great storm the snow is so hard and deep 
that my father and Mr. Whiting had to keep getting out 
and shovelling ahead of us with a snow shovel, and 
then lifting the runners of the pung over the drifts. 
Who ever heard the like the last of March? 

I supposed Monson would seem back-woodsv ; but 
it doesn’t ; and the hotel is very respectable. Keller is 
in a small room up stairs, and Silas Hackett was bath- 
ing his poor, hot face. How sick he looks ! He was 
glad enough to see my father; but when I went up to 
him he drew my face down to his, and kissed it, and 
wet it with tears. 

“ How queer you looked when you came in ! ” said 
he; “just as if you were looking into somebody’s grave, 
and saying, ‘ Poor fellow ! I wish I could have seen 
him before he died.’ ” 

“But you are not dead, little dear, or anywhere near 
it,” said I, though my heart ached clear up to my 
throat ; for it was plain to be seen, by the way Silas 


260 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


tucked down the sheet under his chin, that he was a 
very sick boy ; also by the business look on my father’s 
face as he said I might leave the room, he was going to 
examine the wound. 

“ Let her stay,” whispered Keller. “ If there’s going 
to be anything more done to me, I want her here. 
Say, Molly: you came on purpose to stay by me — 
didn’t you ?” 

I believe the other physician was not at fault; but 
there was something wrong about the setting of the 
bones, and it had to be all done over again. I thought 
I could not stay and see that sight. Things began to 
whirl round and grow dark ; but there was the dear boy 
appealing to me with such a look in his eyes ! and how 
could I refuse? 

“If I have to go through it again, I want women 
folks this time. I knew Pauline would run ; but you’re 
not tender-hearted like her; I thought you wouldn’t be 
afraid.” 

I caught hold of the bed-post, and said I, “ Afraid of 
what? I’ll stay and see you cut up into inch pieces, 
Keller Prescott, if you want me to.” 

That seemed to gratify him very much; so I made a 
few more cold-blooded remarks, and then went off and 
sat on the top stair, waiting for things to stop whirling. 
After a while Silas came to me, and said he, — 

“ You’ll do no such thing. He’ll be under the influ- 
ence of ether, and won’t know whether you’re there or 
not.” 

Then my father came, and advised me to go to my 
room and rest. But I told him I had given Keller my 
word, and I must stay and hold the sponge to his mouth ; 


UP COUNTRT. 


261 


I certainly wouldn’t faint away. My father shook his 
head, but afterwards gave a half consent. I knew all 
the time he would be ashamed of me if I drew back. 

It is all over now, and I am trying to drive it out of 
my mind. I am so glad I staid ! It was a little atone- 
ment for betraying the poor boy’s confidence, and tell- 
ing about the debt to Thankful Works. I can’t confess 
to him yet ; but every time he presses my hand for 
gratitude, a pang goes through my conscience. 

March 26. Keller is said to be doing well, and my 
father and Silas have both gone ; they could neither of 
them stay longer. It was not safe to leave me alone with 
such a sick boy, and a Mrs. Yennebal, from Greenfield, 
was engaged as a regular nurse. But just as my father 
was starting away, a woman came up stairs, puffing 
like a boiling hasty pudding. It was Thankful Works, 
the good soul. The pung she came in had broken 
down, and she had walked a mile through the drifts. 
Pier husband, who is at work in the woods, sent word 
to her that Keller was badly hurt, and not expected to 
live, and she had left her house in care of “his” oldest 
daughter, and hired a man to bring her all this distance. 
Keller was glad to see her. Her crying seems to 
amuse him, and he says the time is shorter the more 
people you divide it among. But for my part I had 
hard work to keep up my spirits before, and don’t know 
what I shall do now. James Works won’t like this 
when he hears of it. Mrs. Yennebal wouldn’t go, or 
at any rate didn’t ; and here is Keller with two nurses 
to make him a double allowance of gruel. I don’t see 
but I may as well go visiting up to camp. Silas prom- 
ised to come for me if the roads grew better. 


262 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


Thankful says, if Keller never should walk again, it 
wouldn’t surprise her. But nothing dreadful ever would 
surprise her. I won’t lisen to what she says. 

Last evening I called her to the door to see Northern 
Lights — the most magnificent sight. The whole sky 
was quivering with rosy lightning, as if the heavens 
were uttering speech in words of fire. 

“ Thankful,” said I, “ did you ever see anything so 
glorious ? ” 

She was just inside the entry, and I could not make 
her cross the threshold. 

“It’s anything but a handsome sight to me,” she 
groaned. 

“ Why, Thankful, what do you mean ? ” 

“I mean something awful is goingto happen. The 
sky don’t look that way for nothing.” 

I told her that reminded me of the Norsemen’s fancy, 
that the Aurora was a sort of shadow-picture of their 
war-maidens fighting up in heaven. 

“ More likely it foretells fighting on earth,” said she, 
“ or what’s worse. The last time I saw it so red was 
one night when Josiah was alive and drunk. He made 
me get out of bed and hurrah for McClellan. I knew, 
the moment I looked out, there was going to be a 
battle; and, sure enough, we had news of one next 
day.” 

“ Thankful,” said I, changing the subject, “ I’m glad 
your new husband doesn’t drink. You must be a hap- 
pier woman than ypu used to be.” 

“Well, yes,” said she, hiding behind her spectacles, 
with that queer look of hers. “All men have their 
faults; if ’tisn’t one thing, it’s another. You may de- 


UP COUNTRT. 


263 


pend there was no fun for me in Josiah’s day, getting 
up cold nights to hurrah for McClellan; still, I will 
say this for him : there never was a kinder man than 
what Josiah was when he was himself — a good, lib- 
eral, open-hearted soul, not one of those kind that’s stren- 
oo-ous about the way you lay out every red cent.” 

She says a great deal lately about Josiah’s kindness. I 
never heard her mention it before. 

March 28. Thankful’s gloomy fears have been real- 
ized, and I hope this is an end of it. James appeared 
yesterday from Tomhegan, and Mrs. Vennebal says she 
overheard him telling his wife he “ came for the express 
purpose of blowing of her up. She might stay now till 
she could get back again ; but what did she come for 
in such going as this ? She’d cost a man an indepen- 
dent fortune at this rate.” 

I told Keller I should suppose a woman with three 
thousand dollars of her own could do as she liked with 
it ; but he says her money has all gone to buy land, 
and now she isn’t worth the least thing. I think mar- 
riage is dreadful. 

March 30. Keller was very feverish last night, and 
Thankful would have sent for my father, but Mrs. Ven- 
nebal advised waiting till morning; and now he is 
better. I could not sleep for fright. I thought Keller 
was going to die ; and every time I prayed he might 
get well, I kept thinking what aunt Filura said, when 
we were so anxious about mother — “Don’t pray too 
hard, Mary Ann, for how do you know her getting well 
would prove for the best ? And if God should grant what 
isn’t really for the best, because of your importunity, it 
would not be a blessing, but a curse. I find,” said she, 


264 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“ it is always wisest to add, ‘ Thy will be done,’ and then 
I feel safe.” I suppose auntie doesn’t know those are 
the four hardest words in the English language. 

A blind man came along yesterday, peddling original 
poetry, and it seemed to interest Keller. Here is a 
little of it : — 

“I was made blind, not by God’s will, 

But by a turbine water-wheel ! 

In eighteen hundred fifty-three 
I was made blind, and cannot see ! ” 

Keller says that is just his case. He was made lame, 
not by God’s will, but by a plaguy old pine tree. Now 
I’m sure this is not the way to talk, and I have tried hard 
to convince him that all the events we call accidents are 
links in a great chain ; and God never lets go the chain, 
any more than he lets a planet fly off into space. Uncle 
Hinsdale says it’s a pity for us to mourn over mistakes, 
just as if our heavenly Father didn’t know they must 
certainly happen, and hadn’t left a margin for them in 
his plan of the world. I talk as pious, dear me ! you’d 
think I’d been through the siege of St. Bartholomew. 
I shouldn’t be patient if I were in Keller’s place ; but 
I know how he ought to feel ; O, certainly ! 

“ Keller,” said I, “ don’t you remember how you and I 
used to sit Sunday evenings, with mother between us, 
op the big sofa, and hear her say that every single thing 
that comes to us, whether joy or sorrow, is sent in love, 
and if we accept it like little children, it is sure to do 
us good ? ” 

“ H’m ! I could bear that kind of talk from an 
angel like mother ; but your cheeks are a little too red, 


UP COUNTRT. 


265 


Molly, and you’re a little too steady on your pins to 
preach to a fellow that’s down. Wait till you’re lame 
for life yourself, and then see what you’ll say/’ 

“Nonsense about being lame for life,” said I. “I 
don’t believe a word of it. It’s one of Thankful’s whim- 
sies, and she’s a woman that’s afraid of red North- 
ern Lights.” 

“But, Molly, if I’m going to get over it, why didn’t 
father say so ? There’s one dead sure thing — I shall be 
bobbing round on crutches all summer. Won’t it be 
nuts for Marie Smith ? She always made fun of me on 
the sly.” 

Then he began to throw pillows and towels about 
at such a rate that I had to comb his hair to compose 
him. I don’t know why he should talk so of dear Marie 
Smith. If he had said it of any of the other girls I 
should not have wondered so much ; though there is 
not one that wouldn’t like him all the better for being 
in trouble, and so I assured him. Little he knows how 
dear he has grown to me. I shan’t say any more to 
him about resignation, though, for I find it always sets 
him to throwing pillows. 

April 5. Silas came for me to go up to camp, and 1 
supposed Keller was willing to spare me ; but he drew 
his face down in a minute, and began to look out of the 
window. 

“ It is a very backward spring,” said he. “ I did hope 
I should live to see the dandelions ; but it doesn’t seem 
much like it now.” 

I ran out of the room, for I couldn’t bear that, and 
came back with some jelly, just as if I had gone for it 
on purpose. 


266 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“ Keller,” said I, “ I’m not going up to camp.” 

“0, you’d better. You may never have so good 4 
chance again.” 

“ I’ll never have so good a chance to break my neck. 
The travelling is just awful; now, Silas, don’t yoiv 
pretend it isn’t. I’ll make you both tell me all about 
camp-life, and that will do just as well, and better.” 

Silas said to me, privately, that he knew Keller had 
“hypo;” I ought to go, and not mind him. Yes, I 
presume he has hypo ; but that’s no reason why I should 
leave him with Thankful, to hear that mournful “North 
Wind.” It took an uncommonly nice supper last night, 
and a game of backgammon, to drive that chant out of 
his head. 

When Silas found I wouldn’t go, he staid two hours 
for company, and we talked the poor boy into spirits 
again. He gave up the idea of dying, and thought he 
should like some beans, such as they cook at camp in 
“ bean-holes.” 

“As if they are any better than what you get at 
home ! ” said I. 

That made him snap his fingers, and tell a long story 
about the cook in a checked apron with a bib to it. 

“ Clean as a whistle. Goes at it as if he knew how. 
None of your little messes. He mixes biscuits in a 
pan as big as a tub, bakes ’em before the fire, and they 
come out regular whoppers. Tell you what, Molly, 
you ought to see us on the deacon’s seat, watching ’em 
bake.” 

“ What is the deacon’s seat ? ” 

“ The three-cornered bench that runs round the fire, 
where the men sit to warm their feet. Back of it are 


UP COUNTRY : 


267 


the bunks, made of cedar boughs, and covered with 
quilts, where you sleep with your feet towards the fire. 
Molly, your education never’ll be finished till you camp 
out. Now, you ought to see that thorough-shot boom 
the men are making.” 

Didn’t I want to ? “ What is it ? ” said I. 

“ It’s a sort of Virginia fence, like. They build it on 
the ice to enclose the logs, and then, when the ice melts, 
there it is, and the logs are held safe. I suppose you 
think the ice goes out of the lake with a crash, as it 
does out of our rivers; but no — it melts, like sugar. 
You look at it some morning, and think it is just as it 
has been all winter ; but it is only the ghost of itself, 
and before night it has vamosed entirely.” 

“Yes; and then the logs go to the outlet,” said I* 
“ and; as they move down river, men in red shirts come 
and pick them out with cant-dogs. But how are people 
so sure whose logs they are ? ” 

“ What a question, Molly ! Every lumberman in 
every town along the banks has a particular mark on 
his logs, such as a cross or a pair of bellows ; so of 
course there can’t be mistakes.” 

“Well, I’m glad you’re not a river-driver, Keller; 
it would frighten me to death.” 

“ Pshaw ! women haven’t any pluck,” said he. And 
then Silas and I made a dash upon him, and said he 
needn’t talk about women ; he was an invalid of the 
first water, and as spleeny as Mrs. Page. We had a 
gay time, and got him out of his megrims ; but Thank- 
ful came in and said the blood was all in his head, and 
sent us out of the room. 

Silas didn’t like to go back to camp without me, and 


268 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER 


I said I wished Judith were here to go ir* my place, 
never thinking but he would say, “ So do I, too.” But 
he made no answer; just went to counting the rings 
in the end of a maple stick, as if his life depended on 
finding out the age of the tree. In all the times I 
have seen him here, he has not once mentioned her 
name ; and Keller says he never speaks of her to hin\ 
Keller says Si and Robert are “the deep kind,” an«£ 
never talk of what is next their hearts. Silas, he know* 
is very much attached to Judith, and ha3 been for year? 

“ thinks a great deal more of her than ghe deserves.” 


UNJUST SUSPICIONS. 


269 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


UNJUST SUSPICIONS. 


Miss Tottenham. 

Mat 1. 

again. Robert came after us. It was 
'yjpvjr pretty hard for Keller, but he bore it better 
4^4/ than we feared. We came in a'pung, and 
he lay on the straw, like Margery Daw. Some of the 
way there was snow, but in most places the ground 
was bare, and the runners grated so it set your teeth 
on edge. Keller didn’t say much, but lay, with my 
brown veil over his face, looking up at the sky ; and 
when Robert went into a house along the road to get 
him a cup of tea, he burst forth all at once. 

“ Molly, I tell you this is a great lesson. When a 
fellow’s down, and can’t help himself, he has a good 
chance to think ; and I’ve thought more within a month 
than I ever did before in my life. Anything new to 
offer about resignation and so forth? If so, preach 
away, for I’m going to try it, and see how it works.” 

“O, Keller,” said I, “I’m ashamed that I ever 
preached to you. You’re twice as patient as I am, 
and have behaved like a lamb all the time, with the 
exception of firing pillows.” 


270 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


And then I stooped over and kissed him, for he likes 
to be petted since he is sick. 

“ Patient, Molly ? Me patient? Well, I like that! 
Bat, you see, I shouldn’t have gained anything by kick- 
ing against the pricks. Can’t do it very well with a 
lame leg. When a fellow’s laid on the shelf for life — ” 

“Don’t, Keller. You’re not laid on the shelf for life. 
That’s all a mistake.” 

“ How do you know?” 

“ Robert says so.” 

“Does he? Good for Bob! Well, wait and see 
what father thinks. I shall know the whole story the 
moment I catch his eye. But, Molly, if I do get well, 
I’m going to turn over a new leaf. You needn’t tell 
anybody I said so, though.” 

• “ What do you mean to do?” 

“ Go to college.” 

“ O, Keller! joyful! Only I should think ’twas 
Epsom salts by the face you make.” 

“ Well, Molly, I can swallow it for father’s sake.” 

“I wouldn’t, Keller; it isn’t really necessary for a 
young man to go to college. Now, there’s Robert.” 

“Yes, I know. You’re always quoting Bob. But, 
Marian, I shouldn’t study by my self j as he does. He’s 
a natural digger. I have to be put up to it, and that’s 
Why I ought to go to college.” 

“ But, Keller, you’ve always said you wanted to be a 
business man.” 

“ Well, is that any reason I shouldn’t know any- 
thing? Listen a minute, Marian. If I should go into 
business now, I should fly right off the handle, for I 
haven’t any stick-to-it-iveness at all.” 


UNJUST SUSPICIONS. 


271 

I was very much surprised, for I never heard Keller 
admit that before. 

“Yes, I need discipline, Molly; that’s a fact; and 
study is what’s going to give it to me. Father’s in the 
right of it. I see it now.” 

“ But you’re not fitted for college.” 

“Yes, I am, or very near it. All I need is a little 
rub at mathematics, and father can put me through 
this summer if he’s a mind to. Hillo ! here comes 
Bob with the tea. Wish I could pick that fellow’s 
brains, and steal some of the knowledge. He never’d 
miss it.” 

It is certain that Keller has been thinking hard 
during this sickness. What if it should be the turn- 
ing-point in his life ? 

It was so delightful to get home; only I suppose 
there is one face I shall always miss — always, always ! 
I have longed for a good hugging from Benjie, and a 
cosy chat with my father. The house was fairly illu- 
minated ; Pauline and Judith were here waiting for 
us; aunt Filura came, too, with her “face like a bene- 
diction,” and her cap-strings flying, and Miss O’Neil, 
fresh from kissing the blarney stone. Half the town 
dropped in in the course of the evening, Marie Smith 
among the rest ; but she couldn’t keep the tears back. 
That doesn’t look like making fun, and I hope Keller 
is satisfied. Poor little Benjie kept looking at him, 
stretched on the sofa, and whispered to me, “ It’s too 
wicked-bad ! ” But, good news ! My father says there 
is no need of permanent lameness, if Keller takes 
proper care of himself. The boy’s face is beaming 
with smiles. 


272 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


•Everybody seemed as glad to see us as if we had 
been gone a year — all but Mr. Bailey, who hadn’t much 
to say. He isn’t very well, and Keller thinks he looks 
“ winter-killed.” I never see him pass the window but 
I think of Robert’s speech, — 

“ There he goes in his rolling tower.” 

I don’t believe any ancient warrior ever did wheel 
off to battle in one of those movable towers with more 
sense of importance than Mr. Bailey feels walking our 
streets. His school won’t last forever, which is a com- 
fort, and it is so late now that I shan’t go any more. 

Silas starts for Boston to-morrow to learn civil en- 
gineering ! ! It is a sudden plan, and that is why I 
use two exclamation points. Wonder if it has any- 
thing to do with wanting to please Judith ? She de- 
clares she never said a word against his being a farmer ; 
still, he must know she has no taste for cows and sheep. 
His mother doesn’t like his going away. She says he’ll 
be glad to come home and “farm it” again. You see 
she talks “ dialect,” and is a little underbred, which is 
a mortification to Judith. 

Robert said to me the other day, “ What do you 
think of the lovers ? Seem pretty cool — don’t they ? ” 

I told him I supposed they were very deep. 

“Ocean deep,” said he. “I can’t make them out. 
Only this I know: Silas is very much attached to Ju- 
dith, and I begin to think it is almost a pity she is so 
well aware of it.” 

“ Why, what do you mean ? ” said I. 

“ I mean that girls are coquettes naturally, and it 
doesn’t answer to let them know their power if you can 
help it. It makes little tyrants of them, Marian.” 


UNJUST SUSPICIONS. 


273 


“ But what if she thinks as much of Silas as he does 
of her?” 

“ W ell, I hope she does ; but she has a very queer 
way of showing it. If I was engaged to a young lady, 
I should think it polite, at least, for her to stay in the 
room when I called.” 

“ O, Robert,” said I, “ your eyes are altogether too 
sharp. Judith had to keep going out yesterday, for 
she was having a dress fitted.” 

Robert is very keen, and sees deep down into most 
things; but in such affairs as this his judgment seems 
to fail him. I suppose it is because he never was in 
love. But neither was I ever in love ; still, being a wo- 
man, I have a sort of insight, and can see that Judith’s 
state of mind is all right; and I assured him over and 
over that he needn’t trouble himself. 

He leaves with Silas to-morrow, to walk a hospital 
just for two or three weeks. I should think it would 
be a “ path of pain.” 

May 5. Mr. Bailey and Judith spend a great deal 
of time tracing constellations. They stand in the front 
door, or put their heads out at the window, and gaze 
up, and talk up, up, out of my reach. They ask me to 
go and join them ; but I’m afraid Mr. Bailey may take 
another fright. Moreover, I don’t care to go. I’m sick 
of the sky for a long while to come, it is so mixed in 
my mind with that little bamboo cane. I told Judith 
yesterday I should be glad when this school was done, 
so she and I could see more of each other, and make it 
seem like old times. And I find she feels just so her- 
self, only she is so kind-hearted that she can’t help 
being polite to Mr. Bailey. Her disposition is lovely ; 

18 


274 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


but I don’t see the need of her treating him like a par- 
ticular friend, 

May 20. Robert is the most suspicious person I ever 
saw. He came home unexpectedly last night ; and the 
moment he arrived he seemed to sniff mischief in the 
air, and kept watching Mr. Bailey, and Judith, and 
me out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t decently 
polite to Fordyce, as Judith calls him, and said two or 
three gruff things; but Fordyce looked as serene as 
the Great Dipper. I don’t believe he would know a 
sneer was meant for him unless you pointed your 
finger straight at him. 

Judith hasn’t been at all well lately. She thinks it 
is studying too hard ; and I dare say she takes cold 
keeping her head out of the window so much. She 
has fits of crying and laughing, and can’t seem to stop 
herself ; and when Tid brought her a letter the other 
night from Silas, she trembled as if she had an ague 
fit. Aunt Esther has no patience with the poor dear. 
She says, — 

“Is Judy sick? or has she got the hysterics? ” 

She never was sick herself. She is as tough as a 
pine knot. If she wasn’t quite so tough, perhaps she’d 
be a little more tender. Such unfeeling remarks dis- 
tress Judith, and she begged me to go and stay with 
her a day or two, for aunt Esther is always pleasanter 
when I am in the house, though I don’t know why. 
Aunt Filura happened along, and I could leave as well 
as not, and I went; and that was the very night Rob- 
ert came. For two or three days Judith hadn’t been 
down to breakfast; but the next morning she tried it, 
and looked as if she was going to fall down stairs. 


UNJUST SUSPICIONS. 


275 


Fordyce ran up to meet her, and steadied her by put- 
ting his arm round her waist. A mere act of polite- 
ness, of course, though I wouldn’t have thanked him 
for such politeness myself. I’d rather have held on 
by the balusters. But Robert looked like a thunder- 
cloud, and hardly spoke a word all through breakfast. 

Afterwards, when Judith and Fordyce were going 
into the parlor, he stopped me in the entry, and asked, 
in a low tone, — 

“ How long has this been going on ?” 

“ How long has what been going on ? ” 

“Well, steamboats, for instance,” said he, looking 
down on me as if I had about as much sense as a nut- 
cracker. Then it flashed over me what he meant. 

“ Robert Willard,” said I, “ if you’ve no more confi- 
dence in your own sister than to suppose she is flirting 
with Mr. Bailey, you don’t deserve to have a sister; 
and that’s the living truth.” 

His brows cleared a little at that. 

“ So you’ve seen nothing of the kind,” said he. 
“ Then perhaps I am mistaken. I’m sure I never 
thought of such a thing till I came home last night, 
and saw you three sitting in a row, and Fordyce hold- 
ing Judith’s hand.” 

I turned to go into the parlor, and put an end to the 
conversation ; but Robert pinned me to the wall, and 
made me answer a dozen questions. 

“Did I think Judith really cared much for Silas? 
Why did I think so? Then what made Silas seem so 
unhappy ? ” 

“I take Judith at her word,” said I, “ buv it seems 


276 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


you don’t. I’m thankful I haven’t a suspicious dis- 
position.” 

“Well, Marian, perhaps you can set me right. I 
can’t really understand all I’ve seen since I came home. 
Why does Fordyce hover about her, and keep his 
eyes on her every minute of the time?” 

“ He’s always staring at somebody,” said I. “ He 
doesn’t know any better.” 

“ But why does Judith allow him to hold her 
hand?” 

“ O, that is electricity. She is very weak this 
spring, and my father did order a galvanic battery; 
but Mr. Bailey has a great deal of magnetic power, 
so it amounts to the same thing.” 

Robert made up an awful face. 

“ There are ontological reasons,” said I, quoting from 
memory, “ why the human system is the best known 
medium of electricity.” 

“What kind of reasons, Marian? Say that over 
again — will you ? ” 

“ Ontological,” I repeated, very solemnly. “ If you 
saw as much of Mr. Bailey as I do, Robert, you 
wouldn’t be so dull of comprehension as you are now. 
You’d have these big words stored away in your 
mind.” 

“No doubt of it. I asked you to say ontological 
over again, just to see if you would curl your upper 
lip as high as you did the first time ; and ’twas done ! ” 
said Robert, going off in one of his spasms of laughing. 
I was almost afraid Judith would be out to see what 
the matter was ; but he stopped suddenly, and looked 
very sober. 


UNJUST SUSPICIONS . 


277 


“ What a saint Jude must be to stand so much non- 
sense! She never takes dislikes to people; it isn’t 
in her.” 

“No; but you do,” said I, “and I know it’s wicked 
of you. But, as true as you live, Robert, I wish Judith 
was a little wicked, too, for I’m out of all patience with 
her for liking everybody, and not seeing any difference 
in people.” 

“Just so,” said Robert; “Jude is too amiable by 
half; but I never shall be hanged for my sweetness, and 
I don’t believe you will, either, Marian.” 

That is quite true : I make no boast of amiability. 
But I think it would have been quite as polite in Rob- 
ert if he hadn’t twitted on facts. 

“ I was afraid, in the first place, you were going to 
admire Mr. Bailey rather more than he deserved,” said 
he, “ but I don’t see any danger of it now. I think you 
feel a little as I do. Now, I know the creature means 
well, but my fingers tingle to shake him. Don’t these 
conceited people stir you all up ? ” 

I longed to tell Robert he might shake him for me 
and welcome. ’Twill be many a long day before I for- 
get how Fordyce Bailey handed me back my heart in 
an old graveyard. Too honest altogether. I never 
should have missed it ! I wonder what Robert would 
say if he knew of that. I don’t believe he could keep 
his hands off the man — “ for ontological reasons.” 

As for Judith, if she knew of my anti-offer, she would 
excuse Fordyce, and think he showed himself very 
kind-hearted. 

June 1. Keller is impatient to be studying; but it 
won’t do to let him, and I have locked up all the 


379 THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

b ooku. He is too proud and sensitive to talk with 
father about his new plans; but he wanted me to 
Mound him about his going to college, and I did. My 
'Vthcr looked surprised. 

“ Too late for that,” said he. “ He disappointed me 
>nce, and now I must disappoint him.” 

It seems my father has met with losses, though he 
6 ever mentioned it before ; and the money he had laid 
aside for college expenses is gone. But what did Kel- 
ler say when I told him ? Why, he stood up, leaning 
on his crutches, looking very pale and handsome, and 
said he, — 

“All the better for that. If father had as much 
money as John Jacob Astor, I wouldn’t take a cent. 
No, sir! Let me once stand on my own feet, Molly, 
and I can push myself through. I can teach, and I 
ean saw wood. I’ve been a drag on the family long 
enough. Think of that two hundred dollars: will 
you ? ” 

I put my hand over his mouth till I had told him 
the whole story about my being so mean — no, so 
flimsy — as to let father know. And then I went and 
brought the note he had given me, and tore it up be- 
fore his eyes. 

“You see my telling of it has cancelled the debt, 
Keller; and now I make you a present of the money.” 

He laughed, and said we would see about that. But 
I feel lighter since I have confessed, even though he 
won’t trust me with a secret now as readily as he did 
before, I’m afraid. 

My father had a talk with him which seemed very 
satisfactory; and I believe Mr. Loring — I can’t get 


UNJUST SUSPICIONS. 


279 


used to calling him William — is going to advance 
some money. And now the boy is “ rubbing up ” in 
mathematics, for it is fully decided that he will enter 
Harvard in September, crutches or no crutches, — 
which reminds me that Robert has given him a beau- 
tiful pair. 

There is no end to everybody’s kindness, or their 
visits, either. Charlie Snow is here half the time. 
Keller is running over with fun, and keeps the whole 
house laughing. Pauline says you may depend he is in 
earnest this time, and Robert says there’s a light in his 
eyes he never saw there before. I think a great deal 
of that from Robert, for I begin to fancy he sees the 
dark side of people. What a time there would be if 
Judith should know what he said about her! 


280 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 



PLATONIC LOYE. 

HAT’S all this high jinks?” said Keller, as 
Marian tried to dance the Highland Fling 
with Benjie’s comforter, and ended by 
playing jollification tunes on the piano as hard as she 
could pound. 

“ Mr. Bailey has gone off in his rolling tower, and I’m 
trying to celebrate. Can’t do it before Judith; she 
doesn’t seem to enter into my feelings.” 

As she spoke, Judith’s face appeared in the doorway, 
looking suspiciously long, arid Keller very prudently 
took to his crutches, muttering, with a scowl, — 

“ Privacy going on, I’ll warrant. Guess I’ll leave.” 

Judith threw herself on the sofa, clasping her hands 
wearily over her forehead. Marian danced off the 
music-stool in a moment, and kneeling before her, be- 
gan to drench her hair with cologne. 

“You poor, headachy creature!” said she; “I’m 
glad you came to me. This seems a little like old 
times. I’ve got you to myself once more, and now I 
mean to keep you.” 

“ O, Marian, you’re my dearest in the whole world ! ” 
cried Judith, throwing her arms around her friend with 
a sudden gush of feeling. Embraces were not very 


PLATONIC LOVE . 


281 


frequent with them ; they were not, as they said, “ that 
sort of girls.” But this little outburst was rather re- 
freshing to Marian, after the long, dry time of Fordyce, 
and star-gazing, and bamboo canes. She answered 
back, laughingly, — 

“No, no, Goosie; not your dearest. What would 
Silas say to that ? ” 

Judith shivered. “Don’t speak his name to me.” 

“Why, Judith!” 

“ O, if I could only tell somebody how I feel, Marian ! 
You are the very one I’d like to open my heart to. 
But you couldn’t understand, child, you couldn’t un- 
derstand.” 

“ Try me, and see,” replied Marian, rather crushed 
by a sense of “ youngness.” “ Perhaps you don’t love- 
Silas as well as you thought you should. There, have 
I guessed right ? ” 

Judith hid her face in her hands. “ Where did you 
get such an idea as that, Marian ? ” 

“ Robert asked me if I didn’t think there was a little 
coolness between you,” faltered Marian ; “ and I sup- 
pose that was what put it into my head.” 

“Robert! did he notice anything? What a boy! 
O, Marian ! how could you two talk of me behind my 
back? Was it friendly in you? Haven’t I always 
been polite and cordial to Silas ? I’m sure, if anybody 
ever tried — ” 

Here she brushed Marian off, and sat upright. 

“ I’m going to tell you the whole story now. It was 
nothing but kindled love, Marian. It wasn’t sponta^ 
neous.” 

“ Kindled love ? ” 


282 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“ There, dear, I told you you wouldn’t understand.” 

“Yes, I do understand, too. You didn’t naturally 
fancy him. It was his caring for you that made you 
love him. I knew that before.” 

“ But I didn’t love him.” 

“O, yes, just a little bit, Judith.” 

“ No, child. I liked him. Love is a very, very dif- 
ferent thing. ‘ Nunc scio quid sit amor? You remem- 
ber how we used to read that in*the Eclogues, in the 
dear old days when we went to Mr. Loring. All, me ! 
and hadn’t any grief beyond leaving the Academy, or 
any care beyond our Virgil lessons.” 

“Yes, Jude, ‘ Nunc scio? ‘Now I know what love 
may be.’ But that doesn’t apply to you. You don!t 
know, it seems, and that’s just what’s the matter.” 

Judith answered by a flood of tears. 

“ O, how little you can sympathize with me, Marian ! 
— my best friend, too. There’s no one in this world I 
can talk to, and my heart is just breaking.” 

Marian looked puzzled and distressed. 

“Judith, Judith, my heart will break too, if I’m no 
more to you than this. I do understand you. I don’t 
wonder you’re unhappy. I should feel just as you do 
if I were in your place. You can’t marry Silas, and 
you’d give your eyes if you hadn’t promised.” 

“Yes, I shall marry him,” responded Judith, slowly 
and firmly. Marian was raising both hands in remon- 
strance, when Keller’s entrance put an end to the con- 
versation; and Judith, declaring her head was better, 
parted for home. 

‘She’ll bear as much waiting upon as any girl I 


PLATONIC LOVE. 


283 


ever saw,” remarked Keller, watching her from the 
window. 

Marian did not hear. She went into the kitchen, put 
on her checked apron, and got supper, without speak- 
ing a word. In the evening she sat thoughtfully over 
her writing-desk, with paper spread before her ; but all 
she did was to write one letter, asking for a catalogue 
of Vick’s flower-seeds for the garden. 

“ Vick ought to be pleased with your elegant com' 
position,” yawned Keller, tired of the long quiet. 
“You’ve been two hours by the clock getting off that 
letter.” 

“Papa,” said Marian, playing with her paper-folder, 

“I want to ask you a serious moral question. Isn’t an 
engagement as sacred as a marriage?” 

The doctor was so used to being sprung upon sud- 
denly by Marian’s “ serious moral questions,” that he 
answered, without the least surprise, — 

“No, I don’t consider it so. Why do you ask?” 

“ O, I just wanted to know. Suppose I had prom- 
ised to marry somebody, and afterwards didn’t want 
to do it, what should you say ? ” 

“ I should say you ought not to have promised.” 

“But I’m talking in sober earnest, papa.” 

“ So am I. I mean your promise should have been 
a conditional one. You are too young to make any 
other kind.” 

“ But suppose I had made the other kind, firm and 
hard ; what then ? ” 

“Then, my daughter, a bad promise i* better broken ' 
than kept.” 

“ Everybody doesn’t say that, papa.” 


284 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“ I know it ; but I do. You asked what I said, l be* 
lieve.” 

“Well, it isn’t very hard work to put this and that 
together,” thought Keller, remembering Judith’s long 
face. “Silas is going to get his walking papers. I 
suspected as much. What a mercy for Si! Marian 
means to keep secrets, but she isn’t as deep as Jacob’s 
well, not by several inches.” 

Marian folded her letter and directed an envelope to 
Mr. Vick with a happier face. Her doubts were at an 
end, for her father’s opinion must certainly be correct ; 
and she resolved to lose no time in repeating it to 
Judith. 

Going to her next day, overflowing with sound ad- 
vice, she found her on the bed in her own room, reading 
“ The Princess.” She kissed Marian, and smiled, but 
not with effusion. Marian was a little pained. 

“There is something lacking in me,” thought she; 
“ I don’t know exactly what ; but I will pump up the 
right sort of feeling, and sympathize with her, if it’s "a 
possible thing.” 

“ Come, dear,” said she aloud, “ I want you to finish 
what you were saying yesterday. You think it doesn’t 
interest me ; but it does very much indeed. Do pray 
go on.” 

“You talked with Robert about me,” said Judith, in 
an injured tone. 

“ But I won’t again.” 

“ Truly ? Solemnly ? Then I will tell you, Marian. 
I love somebody, but not Silas.” 

Marian stared, a little dazed. She thought Judith 
ought to go into hysterics, and quite expected it of her. 


PLATONIC LOVE. 


285 


An engaged girl in love with somebody else? But 
Judith added, with a far-away look, which was not at 
all sad, — 

“Fordyce loves me so dearly that I could no more 
help loving in return than a bird can help flying.” 

Fordyce? Then he was the one, and Robert had 
guessed right ! Marian had not dared ask who it was ; 
but she was scarcely surprised ; indeed, it struck her at 
the moment that she had known it all along. But what 
did possess Judith ? Had she lost her wits ? She had 
•certainly sunk down, down into the very depths of fool- 
ishness ; and Marian could hardly command her voice to 
speak to her respectfully. 

“ F ordyce Bailey ! Why, J udith ! ” 

“Yes, Marian, I knew just what you would say. 
You never liked Fordyce, he is so different from com- 
mon people.” 

Marian wished she could say, “ O, I like him all the 
better for being peculiar.” That would have been a 
great pleasure to Judith; but even for her friendship 
Marian felt that she could not utter such a lie as that. 

“You know I don’t understand metaphysics,” said 
she, meekly. “ I can’t understand such deep people as 
Mr. Bailey. But that needn’t make any difference, 
dear; tell me all about it. Whatever touches you 
touches me.” 

For in spite of a little secret disgust, and a great 
deal of disapproval, Marian could not bear the idea of 
losing her friend’s confidence, and was determined to 
keep a discreet tongue if she could. 

Then Judith, w T ith many ahs and O dears, began at the 
very beginning. Silas was good, very good ; but it was 


286 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


tiresome, she said, having him love her so. She 
couldn’t so much as say, “How d’ye do?” but he 
thought it the sweetest music, or bundle her hair into a 
net but he called it becoming. Once she happened to 
remark that she liked guava* jelly, and he sent and 
bought her some, which mortified her extremely, for 
she wasn’t sick at the time, and Pitkin Jones heard of 
it and laughed. The more she was with Silas, the 
more she saw they were not congenial. She felt re- 
lieved when he went into the woods ; but it had been 
a task to write him every week. She had written 
short, stupid letters, just to see how he would take it ; 
but he had considered them beautiful. She had 
dreaded his coming home, no mortal could guess how 
much. 

“ Marian,” said she, “ when somebody loves you so un- 
reasonably that you can’t say or do anything to disgust 
him, then you’ll know how disagreeable it is.” 

“ I’m not at all afraid,” replied Marian. “ I am not 
fascinating, like you. But, Judith, people in love are 
never reasonable ; what can you expect of poor Silas ? ” 

“Yes, very true; and I am so sorry for him, Mar- 
ian ; much sorrier now since I know what love real- 
ly is.” 

Then Judith sighed and looked out of the window, 
, till Marian thought all the story had been told which 
she was worthy to hear. But presently Judith relent- 
ed, and began again. 

It seems she and Mr. Bailey had fallen in love at 
first sight; and, such a proceeding being contrary to 
rules, it had disagreed with them both, and thrown him 
into dyspepsia and her into headaches. But not a 


PLATONIC LOVE. 


287 


word had been said till about a week ago, when she 
fainted, supposing he was drowned; and then therfe 
had come a tender and very painful crisis. They 
loved, but their consciences would not permit them to 
be happy. Fordyce was the soul of honor, and so was 
Judith. They could neither of them forget the unfor- 
tunate Silas. 

“ Of course you couldn’t ! ” cried Marian, “ pumping 
up the right sort of feeling ” at last, and speaking with 
animation. 

“We were in despair,” said Judith, looking as rueful 
as Thankful when she saw red Northern Lights. 

“ Of course you were,” cried Marian again, who con- 
sidered despair very proper under the circumstances. 

“But we feel very different now,” said Judith, with 
kindling eyes ; “ for what does this little wee wee world 
amount to? Fordyce says I must keep my word and 
marry Silas ; and I certainly shall. It seems hard — 
doesn’t it ? But I will do my duty, Marian, and then, 
when it is all over, no one can prevent Fordyce and 
me from coming together in heaven.” 

“ Why, Judith,” said Marian, much shocked, “ I never 
heard any one talk so before.” 

“ Because people are so material and sublunary, dear. 
Fordyce has elevated my ideas very much. I am will- 
ing to drag through this life, doing my duty by Silas, 
and waiting till by and by to be happy.” 

“But I shouldn’t think Silas would thank you for 
dragging through life with him. My father wouldn’t 
advise that. He said last night — ” 

“ Don’t tell me what your father or any one else says, 
Marian. I am in an exalted mood, and I don’t want 


288 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


to be disturbed. Fordyce and I have made up out 
minds, and are contented to sacrifice ourselves for the 
sake of duty.” 

Marian beat a tune on the bureau-top. She felt as 
if the sound advice she had brought from home was 
out of place now, and must be saved for another time. 

“ Let me see,” said she ; “ I was at your house the 
very evening after you fainted away, J udith. Y ou and 
Mr. Bailey were writing back and forth on the slate ; 
but I didn’t suspect it was anything but crambo verses. 
How dull I must be ! 

“ And all those evenings this spring, when he 
wrapped you up in his great-coat, and you put your 
heads out of the window, were you really talking about 
astronomy ? ” asked she, a vague distrust of everything 
coming into her mind. If she should find the stars 
were spangles cut out of gilt paper, it would hardly 
surprise her now. 

“Yes; sometimes we talked of astronomy,” replied 
Judith; “but oftener we spoke our own thoughts. It 
is surprising how they harmonize. It is like a chord in 
music. But I haven’t that grasp of sublime ideas 
which Fordyce has, not by any means. He is a born 
poet ; but you don’t appreciate him, Marian.” 

“ Ho, dear; I told you I didn’t.” 

“ And lately we have been scanning the heavens, try- 
ing to decide, — now you won’t laugh, unless you are 
very materialistic in your views, Marian, — trying to de- 
cide which star to live on after we die.” 

“What?” 

“Venus, Jupiter, or Mars. Fordyce says it stands 
to reason that disembodied people dwell there. We 



STUDYING ASTRONOMY. Page 28$. 








PL A TONIC LOVE. 


289 


have decided on Venus. We like it best through the 
telescope. — Marian, you are laughing.” 

“I didn’t mean to, Judith ; but it sounds so queer! 
Are you sure it isn’t wicked ? ” 

“ How can it be wicked ? As I was saying, we have 
decided on Venus, and the one who dies first will go 
there and wait for the other. This is not a mathemati- 
cal certainty, Marian ; but it is a delightful prospect. 
And, as spirits are ethereal, why can’t they go where 
they please ? Tell me why not ? ” 

“O, dear! I don’t know; only it seems as if you 
are talking about things you ought not to,” said Mar- 
ian, not wishing Judith to see how shocked she really 
was. 

So this was the sort of astronomy lesson the girl had 
been learning with her arms stuck through the sleeves 
of Fordyce’s great-coat ! 

“No wonder she has headache,” thought Marian. 
“Just hearing her tell of it has wound my head up so 
it seems as if it would crack.” 

“ There, Marian, now I have told you things I would 
never tell to another living being. If Robert should 
know it, he would consider it weak and ridiculous. 
He hasn’t a poetical mind, and can’t distinguish the 
different kinds of love. Now, this is purely platonic, 
and very spiritualizing. I know by the influence it has 
had on me. But Robert would not appreciate it. He 
would fly off in a tangent, and say I was unfaithful to 
Silas.” 

“Yes, I think he would,” said Marian; “and I must 
say it has that appearance.” 

“Yes; but, Marian, how can I convince you it 'w’t 

19 


290 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


so ? Fordyce is going to write me one letter, and that 
is all. Just think, only one letter, and then our ac- 
quaintance will cease ! I don’t see how I keep up at 
all! You can’t guess what this is to me. Never to 
see him again ! Or only as a friend, perhaps, months 
or years hence ! ” 

Marian tried to look sympathetic, but failed entirely. 
Still, she was very sorry for Judith. Poor girl, how 
she was crying ! 

“ He will never marry ; he will labor for the good ot 
mankind, and wait till by and by, as I do, to be happy. 
But that one precious letter he must write. And, 
Marian, dearest, I have a favor to ask of you. Will 
you let him direct the letter to you? It will come 
some time next week.” 

“What! a letter to you, directed to me?” 

“Yes. Robert knows his writing, and there would 
be trouble at once.” 

“ So it is to come to me, whether I am willing or 
not,” said Marian. “Then it seems to me, Judith, it is 
rather late in the day to ask my consent ! ” 


GODS AND HALF-GODS. 


291 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


GODS AND HALF-GODS. 


Miss Tottenham. 



August 5. 


HAVE said nothing to you all summer, for 1 


couldn’t. To think Judith should have been so 


sly ! My own little Judith ! I thought a mar- 
riage engagement was a fixed thing, like the Siamese 
twins ; but it seems it isn’t. And when you appear to 
be studying astronomy, you are really talking about 
keeping house in the stars. And when you marry one 
man, you are loving another. And when you get let- 
ters from “ another,” it is in the name of somebody 
else. My head was in a hard knot. 

Last June I promised to watch for that letter from Mr. 
Bailey, and I made Tom go to the post office every 
night the moment I heard the stage wheels, so he 
would be sure to get ahead of Robert, who insists upon 
bringing our mail, though he must know there’s no 
need of it. I was just as faithful as a watch-dog, and 
insisted on Keller’s spending a few days atPoonoosac, 
just to get him out of the way. But all in vain. The 
night the letter actually came, Miss O’Neil was seized 
with what she considered her last sickness. You maj 
depend upon her for dying at the wrong time. An(* 


292 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


she made choice of me, out of all the girls in the vil- 
lage, to go and stay with her. It was the first time 
she had ever asked me, and I couldn’t bear to refuse. 
I gave Tom a final charge about the post office, and 
started. It seems Benjie heard me talking to Tom — 
that child hears everything. When I got to Miss 
O’Neil’s, I found she was having fainting turns, and 
felt very down-hearted, for she isn’t used to being sick ; 
but she revived at sight of me, and said she “ guessed, 
after all, she should live till green sauce came, and she 
had always noticed that if she did live till green sauce 
came, she was sure to get through the rest of the 
year.” 

About ten o’clock she called for some cold water, 
and said I must draw it from the Liscomb well, across 
the street. As I was coming back, pitcher in hand, I 
met Robert. 

“ What are you doing ? ” said he, taking the pitcher 
out of my hands. 

“Watching with Miss O’Neil.” 

“ I wish I had known it ; I would have brought your 
mail.” 

“ Was there anything for me?” 

“Yes; a letter as big as your head.” 

“ Ah ! Where did it come from ? ” 

I thought I must say something, for he was looking 
at me, and my face was turning various colors by 
moonlight. 

“From New York.” 

“New York!” 

I was thinking to be sure he would say Boston. 

“I beg your pardon for noticing the post-mark, 


GODS AND HALF-GODS. 


293 


Marian ; but the handwriting was almost exactly like 
Fordyce Bailey’s, and I looked before I thought.” 

“It’s of no consequence,” said I, ready to sink 
through the door-stone. “You needn’t apologize. 
But what did you do with the letter?” 

“Well, the fact is, Tom came and took it out of my 
hands, with the rest of the mail. It seems I wasn’t 
expected to inquire at your box. Benjie read me a 
small lecture on the subject when I got to the house. 
I hope you won’t be offended with me, and think I 
meant to be officious. I’ve always been in the habit 
of getting your mail, and it never occurred to me till 
just now that you could have any objections.” 

You would have thought he was speaking to the 
Queen of England, he was so deferential. Still I could 
see that he felt very much hurt. 

“ O, Robert,” said I, “it was only — ’’and there I 
stopped. I couldn’t say it was only in this particular 
case that I didn’t wish him to get the mail. Perhaps 
he knew what I meant as well as if I had said it; or 
perhaps he really thought I considered him officious; 
at any rate, he was a good deal disturbed, I knew by 
his eyes. He has the sort that tell when anything 
goes wrong. It’s partly the color that does it — a 
beautiful brown, like Pauline’s, with once in a while a 
darker shade stealing over it, as if there were unknown 
depths in there. I never saw such remarkable eyes, 
with so much cloud and sunshine. It was none of his 
business about the letter ; but I didn’t like to see him 
look so glum, and was going to say something to light 
up his eyes, when Miss O’Neil called out, — 

“Pretty works, Miriam; picking up young men* 


294 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


and talking in the street. Where’s my drink of 
water ? ” 

I ran in then, for fear the neighbors would hear her. 

Next morning, when I went home, I asked Tom 
what he did with the letters. He said he put them on 
the centre-table in the sitting-room. My father never 
alluded to them, only looked at me sharply all dinner- 
time, and I was afraid to speak. After dinner, when I 
had brought my work into the sitting-room, he came 
in and walked back and forth, with his hands behind 
him, and at last stopped right before me, and said he, 
in that cutting tone of his, — 

“Well, my daughter, you may not know it now, but 
you will find out some time 

‘ How salt his food who fares 
Upon another’s bread ; how steep his path 
Who treadeth up and down another’s stairs.’” 

I couldn’t think of anybody’s stairs I had trodden 
up and down but Judith’s. And then I sprang out of 
my chair, for I thought he referred to my going to 
Mr. Willard’s so much when Fordyce was there. He 
must have detected the handwriting as well as Robert, 
and they both thought it was a secret correspondence. 
It was quite too bad. I wanted to clear myself ; but, 
just as I was going to speak, I remembered I was 
under bonds, and couldn’t. 

“ Calm yourself, child,” said my father. “ I will ex- 
plain presently why I am displeased with you. But, 
first of all, I must make confession of having done 
wrong myself. I took up a letter last night directed 
to you. It was so thick as to require three postage 


GODS AND HALF-GODS . 


295 


stamps, and, as it came from New York, I never 
doubted it was Vick’s Catalogue of Flower Seeds, 
which you sent for a few days ago. I wondered it 
should be mailed like a letter, but presumed it was a 
mistake. And, Marian, I — opened it.” 

“ O, papa ! ” screamed I. 

“ It was a careless thing. I claim no right to inter- 
fere with your correspondence, as you very well know. 
I opened this merely to see if Vick had an Ophir Rose.” 

I just shook all over with the dread of what was 
coming next. 

“And, instead of the catalogue, out fell a written 
document, beginning, ‘ Mine in heaven ! ’ ” 

“ O, father ! And you thought that meant me ! ” 

“I hardly know what I thought. I was too utterly 
astonished to form an idea. The next words were like 
these : — 

“‘Yes, Judith, though another will call you his for 
the little while we stay below, yet your own Fordyce 
bids defiance to the pettiness of this small earth, and 
dares claim you for his bride in the stars ! ’ 

“ There, Marian, what do you say to that ? ” 

“ What can I say, papa, except that I am very, very 
sorry ? ” 

“ Sorry for what? It seems this is no news to you.” 

“ Sorry you read the letter.” 

“ Ah, but I didn’t, my daughter,” said he, dropping 
it in my hands as if it wasn’t fit to be touched without 
gloves. “ I never read another line after I came to the 
‘ bride in the stars.’ ” 

“O, but, papa — ” 

“Yes, Marian, I know what you would say: I had 


296 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


read far enough to see through the whole business; 
and so I had. I do not need to ask any questions. 
Judith is a heartless coquette — a wicked, deceitful 
girl ; and my daughter is conniving with her to impose 
upon Silas Hackett, one of the best young men that 
ever grew up in Quinnebasset.” 

“ O, father ! stop a minute, and let me think. I 
don’t know how much I ought to tell ; but it can’t do 
any harm to say this: I never knew Fordyce was in 
love with Judith until after he went away.” 

“ Can it be possible, Marian ? And you were with 
them half the time ! What is the matter with your 
eyes ? ” 

“ Cataracts, I guess. Robert saw something wrong ; 
but, truly, father, I couldn’t believe it was so.” 

My father came a little nearer to me then, for he 
began to see I hadn’t “ connived.” 

“ I am glad to know so much in your favor, Marian. 
But by what right did Mr. Bailey direct this letter to 
you ? It must have been a contrived plan.” 

“Yes, sir; but contrived without my knowledge. 
I didn’t even know till the other day that the letter 
was coming.” 

“Humph! Judith doesn’t scruple to take liberties 
with her friends. And you are expected to endure all 
this for her sake ? ” 

“ O, it’s nothing, papa, except the risk of being mis- 
understood.” 

“ Yes, child. Do you remember the cat whose paws 
the monkey made use of to pull chestnuts out of the 
fire?” 


GODS AND HALF- GODS. 


297 


“ But there are to be no more letters, father. This 
is the last one.” 

“ Indeed !” 

“ O, yes, sir ; Mr. Bailey is very honorable.” 

“ Very.” 

“ But, father, he certainly is. He couldn’t help his 
feelings towards Judith ; but he has gone away now, 
and will stay away; they are not to meet any more.” 

“ An excellent plan, my dear, — if well carried out. 
And, meanwhile, Judith is to keep Silas blindfolded, 
and marry him — is she?” 

“ She thinks she can’t break her word.” 

“ Marian, look up in my face. Do you consider this 
proper behavior ? ” 

“ It doesn’t seem so, father ; but I don’t understand 
such matters.” 

“ Don’t understand ! Why, I hope you have com' 
mon sense.” 

“But, father, there is something about love sc 
queer! It seems just like a whirlwind ; takes people 
right off their feet, and spins them round and round.” 

My father laughed. 

“ ‘ The gods approve 

The depth, but not the tumult, of the soul,’ ” 

said he. “ I don’t believe in French love, daughter. 
You may carry the letter to Judith, with my sincere 
apologies for opening it; and tell her if I ever see 
another of the same sort I shall pass it over to Silas 
Hackett.” 

“ O, father, how cruel ! ” 

But it was of no use pleading with him ; the more I 


298 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


said, the more exasperated he grew. I went over to 
Mr. Willard’s with the letter, and met Robert on the 
street. He looked sober, and I knew I looked guilty. 
It seemed as if I might say something to make things 
more comfortable, and said I, — 

“ Robert — ” 

He stood still, waiting for me to finish ; but I only 
remarked, — 

“ A lovely day,” and passed on. 

Judith was very eager to see me, for she was almost 
sure I had a letter. She had been at our house in the 
forenoon to inquire, but found me asleep. Nobody 
knows how I dreaded to put that document in her 
hands, with the torn envelope, and tell her who had 
opened it. I knew she would be dreadfully mortified. 
But she was worse than that : she was frantic. My 
father was the last person to have sympathy with her 
she said. Never was any one so unlucky as she. And 
Robert had seen the handwriting. He would take her 
head off. He couldn’t appreciate such a peculiar case. 
I slipped out and got the hartshorn, and then left her 
alone to peruse the manuscript. When I came back 
she was in high feather, and I was glad, though at 
the same time I knew her face had no right to be so 
bright. 

“ It is well this is the end of the correspondence, v 
said I, “ for you see I could not have any more letters 
pass through my hands.” 

I did not tell her my father had said, if she made a 
cat’s paw of me again, he should forbid her the house. 

“ Fordyce wants to write again,” said she ; “ but I 
mustn’t allow it. I’m resolved to be faithful to Silas.” 


GODS AND HALF-GODS. 


299 


“ Faithful ! ” I had to turn my face away to hide a 
jmile. She kept sniffing the hartshorn, and growing 
more and more cheerful. 

“ I’m sorry Robert saw the handwriting ; but never 

mind, Marian ; he will probably think you are engaged 
to Fordyce.” 

- “Now, Judith, do you suppose he will?” 

“ Why, What do you care ? ” 

I wanted to tell her I’d as lief he would think I had 
committed burglary ; but it wouldn’t do to say so. 

“ And your father wouldn’t breathe a word ? ” 

“ No, Judith ; don’t imagine it for a moment.” 

“ So nothing dreadful has happened, after all ; and 
poor Silas will never be the wiser. O, Marian, I’m in 
such an exalted frame of mind, I feel prepared to do 
my duty all my life by that boy. You don’t know the 
self-sacrifice there is in true love.” 

It was dreadful to see her so deluded ; but the more 
I reasoned with her, the more she thought I was of the 
earth earthy, and “ couldn’t appreciate such a peculiar 
case.” 

She was so high up in the blue that she never 
stopped to care about Robert’s getting a wrong im- 
pression of me. I didn’t like it very well to have him 
suppose I was carrying on a private correspondence 
with Fordyce, after all I had said against him. Robert 
never mentioned his name to me, but he seemed very 
sober, and stopped getting our mail. I suppose he 
thought I was a deceitful, foolish girl, and he had just 
found me out. Perhaps some people wouldn’t have 
minded ; but Robert has always been a firm friend of 

mine, and I think a great deal of his good opinion. 


300 THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


Affairs went on very quietly for a while. My father 
asked no questions. Keller knew nothing whatever, 
but spoke now and then of Silas, and darkly hinted 
that some girls were naturally fickle. J udith answered 
Fordyce’s letter, bidding him stop writing, and he 
obeyed. But all the while, it seems, he was turning 
things over in his mind, and coming to the conclusion 
that he shouldn’t wait till they went to the stars ; he 
would rather be married on earth. So he took the 
matter into his own hands, and wrote Silas Hackett a 
very saucy letter. Silas was busy with his engineer- 
ing, trying to please Judith, and thinking everything 
was right, when this letter came. It told him flatly 
that he was very much mistaken if he thought Judith 
Willard cared anything about him. The idea was 
preposterous. His nature was too grovelling for her. 
She only pitied him — poor fellow ! while her heart 
was given to a far superior and more cultivated man ; 
to wit, Fordyce Bailey, Esquire. If Silas Hackett, 
yeoman, knew what was best, he would take his un- 
worthy self out of the way, and not annoy the dear 
girl any more. 

This was a great surprise to Silas, but he was too 
sharp to be imposed upon. He wrote back to Mr. 
Bailey that he should wait till he heard from the lady 
herself before he took himself out of the way. For- 
dyce was not prepared to find the country boy so cool 
and dignified. Silas was more than a match for him, 
and sent his impudent letter to Judith, merely remark- 
ing that it must be either a joke or a foolish mistake; 
he had “ all faith in her, and knew she would not de* 
ceive him.” 


GODS AND HALF-GODS. 


301 


His manly conduct shamed Judith. 

“What shall I do?” said she. “Tell me what 
to do.” 

“ Write him the whole truth,” said I. 

“ But, Marian, he will despise me. He won’t under- 
stand that 1 was sacrificing my feelings for his sake. 
I can’t tell him. Don’t you see I can’t ? ” 

My heart turned away from Judith for just one mo- 
ment, with a feeling almost like disgust; and then I 
remembered what good friends we had always been, 
and how Robert had said if anybody had any influence 
over her, it was I ; and I put my cheek close to hers, 
and spoke firmly, as if I was talking to a child. 

“ Don’t you know, dear, I can see the thing just as 
it is, for my mind is clear, and yours isn’t? You don’t 
think what you are doing. There is nothing safe but 
the truth, Judith — the plain, square truth.” 

That brought her to her senses at last, for she means 
to be sincere, only she lacks courage. She could not 
bear to write Silas that Fordyce was correct ; but she 
told him if he would come, she would “ explain things 
to his satisfaction.” 

He came, and she explained ; but I doubt if it 
was to his satisfaction, for he looked so distressed that 
everybody noticed it. Judith said not a word about 
breaking the engagement; but he told her she was 
free, and he never spoke a word of blame. She de- 
clares she never came so near loving him as she did 
when he told her she was free ; he looked so noble, 
and his face was so pale and refined. 

He went away, and everybody seemed to know at 
once how the case stood ; and such a time as there 


302 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


was all over town ! for Quinnebasset people will talk. 
Robert was too proud to ask questions, but he seemed 
very much surprised. 

Of course Judith, in her distress wrote to Fordyce, 
and he came straightway to see her; got out of the 
stage, and walked all the way from the post office, in a 
heavy rain-storm, on purpose to surprise her. I’ve 
heard before of people that didn’t know enough to keep 
out of fire and water! Judith and I were standing in 
the front hall, and what think he said, as he nipped in, 
swinging his cane? 

“ Ah, Judith, when the half -gods go, the gods may 
arrive ! ” 

That’s Emerson, I wish you to know, and “half- 
gods ’’stands for Silas Hackett, and “gods” for For- 
dyce Bailey. I looked down at Fordyce’s muddy 
boots, and thought, — 

“Well, young man, you may call yourself a god, but 
you have clay feet? 

I ran home, and left the lovers to themselves, rather 
glad at the bottom of my heart that matters were 
approaching a crisis. I hadn’t been at home five min- 
utes, and Benjie and I were having a cosy rock in the 
big chair, when Robert rushed in, looking both pleased 
and* provoked, and shook hands with me in the hearti- 
est manner, as if he would never let go. 

“Well, you are pure gold, after all,” said he, “as 
I always used to think ; and I beg your pardon for 
taking up any other opinion.” 

“ Thank you,” said I. “ Please explain.” 

“Why, I might have known better than to think 
you cared for that fool.” 

And then he set his teeth together, and said he, — 


GODS AND HALF-GODS. 


303 


“ But it cuts me up to find it’s my own sister that’s 
lacking in sense.” 

He did feel dreadfully. But it did me good to have 
him so cordial to me once more. He is none of your 
milk-and-water sort; and it pleased him so to find I 
hadn’t deceived him, that it almost made up for his 
trouble about Judith. I come next to her, I do thin*, 
in his mind. 

“ Don’t be hard on Judith,” said I. “ She couldn’t 
help it. It’s too bad ; but she is really in earnest this 
time. You can see for yourself, Robert, she must be 
in love with that, man, for if she wasn’t, how could she 
endure him ?” 

That set him off in a gale of laughing, though I 
couldn’t see what I had said so very absurd. If it 
doesrtt take blind love to make some people endurable, 
then I’m mistaken. 

“ I like to hear you plead Judith’s cause,” said Rob- 
ert, “ your arguments are so original. But the trouble 
is with me, I am afraid your client doesn’t know her 
own mind.” 

“ What makes you think so ? ” 

“Well, I don’t believe in being ‘struck with huge 
love ’ all of a sudden. The real sort is something dif- 
ferent — has a good solid foundation.” 

“ That shows you don’t know anything about it, sir.” 

“ As much as you do, ma’am, begging your pardon. 
Do you suppose, now, Judith would ever have thought 
of this man with the bamboo cane if she hadn’t been 
tired of Silas?” 

“ Why, Robert Willard ! what an idea ! ” 

“ Well, I can’t help my ideas. And, what’s more, I 


304 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


think she’ll be dreadfully ashamed of this six months 
hence.” 

I shook my head. 

“Wait and see,” said he, looking as wise as an owl. 

It isn’t six months yet; so I can’t say positively. 
She never thought of such a thing as a commonplace, 
matter-of-fact engagement with Fordyce Bailey, and it 
rather bewildered her at first. There didn’t seem to 
be so much romance when she found everybody was 
willing. Aunt Esther liked it; her father said, “Just 
as you please ; ” and Robert only stood off* and whis- 
tled. He had begged her to wait a year before she 
made any more promises to anybody ; but she didn’t 
mind him, and then he washed his hands of her. 

She keeps asking me, “ Don’t I seem happy ? ” Well, 
yes, she does. Only no one has congratulated her on 
her new engagement, and she says she “ suspects For- 
dyce isn’t a great favorite in Quinn ebasset.” I could 
have told her that before. 

“But what do you care?” said I. “You are satis- 
fied with him, and that’s enough.” 

He is editing a paper called the “ Cynosura Star,” 
and Judith fills one corner every week with a poem. 
The rest of the time she is writing letters to her dear 
Fordyce. Say what you will, Miss Tottenham, it 
must be delightful to be in love ! 


A QUEER LITTLE STORT 


805 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A QUEER LITTLE STORY. 

u W OULDN’T be a doctor’s wife for anything in 
this world,” cried Marian, her swift-flying broom 
sending the cat skulking under the table. 

“ Why not?” said Judith, sitting down in the middle 
of the room to avoid the September gale from the open 
window. 

“ Why, a medical man hasn’t any peace of his life, or 
his wife either. I had to keep breakfast hot two mor- 
tal hours this morning, — please move back your chair 
a little, — and what time my father’ll get home to din- 
ner nobody knows. I wouldn’t marry a doctor if it 
was to save the world.” 

Marian spoke with unnecessary warmth, being se- 
cretly irritated by Judith’s plastic manner of letting 
her skirts drag in the dirt. 

“You wouldn’t, indeed?” said Judith, with a sly 
smile. “I should think you were the last person to 
■peak against the faculty. You’ve always been brought 
up with doctors, and you’ll marry one yet. I’m as sure 
of it as I am that I sit in this chair.” 

Marian twitched back her sweeping cap, which had 
settled on the bridge of her nose, and took up the dust 
pan in high disdain. 

29 


306 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


“I know too much for that,” said she; “a burnt 
child dreads the fire.” 

Judith laughed — a low, lady-like laugh, with an un- 
dertone of meaning in it. 

“ I’ll tell that to Robert,” said she. 

Quick as thought, the bright color surged to Mar- 
ian’s face, over went the dust pan, and down she sank 
to the floor. 

“Judith Willard, how could you?” 

It was the first time the idea had ever entered her 
head of Robert as a possible lover. 

Judith laughed again. 

“How could you speak so?” said Marian, in a 
grieved tone. “ I think it’s really indelicate.” 

“Why, child, what did I say?” 

True enough. What had she said? The words 
were nothing. How stupid to take them up as if they 
had some hidden meaning! The pink color in Mar- 
ian’s face deepened to crimson. It was really very 
awkward, and she was put to her woman’s wits to 
know what to say next. Determined to steer clear of 
the medical profession this time, she dashed headlong 
into another subject. 

“ O, J ude, did you know Thankful had given me that 
recipe for making ginger tea ? ” 

“Ah!” 

“Yes, that famous ginger tea! Don’t you know 
how private she used to be about it? You take two 
eggs — ” 

“Do I? Well, you’re quick at changing the conver- 
sation ! ” said J udith, with an amused smile. “ I don’t 
see, though, and never did, why you should be so 


A QUEER LITTLE STORE. 


307 


afraid of me, Marian. I’ve always talked to you 
freely about my own affairs ; but you’re just as close- 
mouthed ! I never dared hint a word about Robert be- 
fore, and the moment I do it, you’re on your dignity.” 

Marian looked up in utter astonishment. 

“O, now, dear, you needn’t pretend to such ig- 
norance! You know all about it just as well as I do.” 

“ All about what ? ” 

“ Why, that Robert worships the very ground you 
walk on.” 

It was all out now — the words Judith ought never 
to have spoken, the story she had no right to tell, the 
secret which Robert himself had never whispered to a 
living soul. 

Marian turned pale, and looked frightened. 

“ I don’t believe it.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ Because Robert would know better.” 

Marian spoke with prompt decision, as if the idea 
was not to be entertained for a moment, and her tone 
piqued Judith. 

“Now, Marian, that’s a strange way to talk! If 
there’s a living human being you think is perfection, 
next to your father, it’s Robert Willard, and you can’t 
deny it.” 

“Well, what of that? That isn’t saying I’m in love 
with him ; and I’m not, any more than those tongs, or 
those bellows, except as a friend,” added Marian, grow- 
ing incoherent in her eagerness to set Judith right. 

“ But you will,” was the ungrammatical reply. 

“Will what? — No, I won’t; I mean I can’t; and I 
wish you wouldn’t say another word about it. I should 


808 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


hate Robert if he should say such a thing to me ! He 
musn’t ! He musn’t ! ” 

“He won’t then; you needn’t be afraid,” said Judith, 
in a changed tone. “ I’ll tell him.” 

“Tell him? — No, no, no! that would be the worst 
of the whole. O, Judith, please do promise you 
won’t.” 

But Judith, whose family pride had been touched, 
only gazed straight into the fire, without answering. 
She was generally as pliable as a ball of putty, but 
when she did set her face like a flint, woe betide you! 
Marian had twenty minds. She wanted to kneel and 
implore ; she was ready to fly into a rage ; but on the 
whole, didn’t know but it was best to turn the whole 
thing into a laugh. 

The laugh carried the day. Before she had time to 
beseech or to scold, Benjie rushed in with a rueful 
face, exclaiming, — 

“ Hillo, you Mamie, I’ve been busted out of my last 
marble ! ” 

And between the reproof Marian had to administer 
for bad language, with the child’s face cuddled in her 
neck, and the answer she had to give Tom the next 
moment about the new flower-stand, Judith slipped out 
of the house, and ran home. Marian did not fear that 
she was seriously offended, for Judith’s temper was 
perfect; but she did almost fear that the thoughtless 
girl might talk with Robert as she had threatened. 

“ She can’t do it, though, till he comes home from 
Philadelphia ; and before that time I’ll make her prom- 
ise to keep still.” 

But Judith carefully avoided the subject, and Marian 


A QUEER LITTLE STORY. 309 

had not the courage to allude to it again. She hardly 
ever spoke Robert’s name ; but, strange to say, that 
conversation with Judith kept fresh all the fall. She 
could repeat every word of it, and the more she tried 
to drive it out of her head, the more it came back 
again, and staid. It had not taken five seconds for 
Judith to tell that little story; but it took days and 
weeks for Marian to say it over and over again to her- 
self — “He worships the very ground you walk on.” 

I don’t believe it ! It sn’t at all likely. 

And then she reviewed his words and looks, as many 
of them as she could possibly remember, — even the 
very tones of his voice, — in order to satisfy herself 
whether it really was “ at all likely ” or not. Hot that 
it was of any particular consequence, either ; only she 
wanted to know. Sometimes she thought Judith must 
be right; then again it seemed “perfectly absurd;” so 
she felt obliged to go over the same ground day after 
day, beginning with, “ How I wish I knew ! ” and leav- 
ing off at the place of beginning. The subject was 
rather fascinating, and grew more and more so. 

How strange it would be if Robert had really cared . 
for her all this time, and she had not known it 1 But 
then she was so blind ! Girls were often blind. There 
was Judith, one of the wise ones in such matters, if 
anybody ever was ; and even she didn’t dream Silas 
Hackett loved her till he told her so. Perhaps girls 
were usually kept in the dark on purpose. What did 
Robert say about that very thing? Marian recalled 
the exact words, — 

“ Girls are coquettes naturally. It doesn’t answei 


310 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


to let them know their power : it makes little tyrants 
of them, Marian.” 

Perhaps that was the very reason why Robert had 
let concealment prey upon his damask cheek so long. 
He was afraid Marian might take a dislike to him, as 
Judith had done to Silas. 

“ And I suppose I should. O, no doubt of it ; only,” 
added she, hesitating, “I am so very different from 
Judith! I never quite understood why Silas annoyed 
her so.” 

“ Because,” mused Marian, as she set a patch into 
Benjie’s jacket, “because, if anybody does truly choose 
you out of the whole world, I should think your heart 
would answer back. That is, if it’s such a person as 
— O, dear, what am I thinking about ? I’m making a 
button-hole stitch round this patch.” 

Marian seized her scissors, and picked away with a 
resolute scowl, as if the button-hole stitch were not at 
the root of the mischief, but she must pick out a 
thought that went deeper still. 

Ah, but the thought wouldn’t come ! 

Once upon a time, an unfortunate lady, named Mrs. 
Bluebeard, dropped a fatal gold key in the closet, and 
got a stain on it, which all the scouring in the world 
wouldn’t rub off. There are other things which take 
just as indelible stains as gold keys. Judith, with 
those few careless words, had made an impression on 
her friend’s mind which she could not now efface if she 
tried. 

“ O, Marian,” said she, one morning, in a matter-of- 
course way, as if she were talking of basque patterns, 
“ I wrote Robert yesterday what you said about hating 


A QUEER LITTLE STORY 


311 


him if he should come any nearer ; so you needn’t be 
at all afraid : he is very quick to take a hint.” 

“ Why, Judith Willard, you can’t be in earnest. You 
didn’t tell him that ? ” 

“To be sure I did; and it’s nothing to look so wild 
about, child. It’s only between Robert and me. You 
may be sure ’twon’t go any farther.” 

“O, Judith, Judith, I don’t thank you; and I 
think, as I said before, you’re positively indelicate,” 
cried poor Marian, burying her blazing face in her 
hands. 

“ Why, Marian, do you suppose I’d let my darling 
brother go and make a fool of himself? ” 

“You needn’t be afraid of that, Judith Willard. 
He’s plenty big enough and old enough to take care 
of his own affairs. And to think of your interfering, 
and mortifying me to death ! ” 

“ I never thought of your taking it so to heart,” said 
gentle Judith, a little disconcerted. “I’ll write again 
to-morrow, and say it was all a mistake.” 

“ If you do,” cried Marian, springing up, and seizing 
Judith’s hands, “%y*you do — ” 

“Well, there’s no such thing as suiting you,” re- 
turned Judith, with mild resignation. “If I were in 
your place, Marian, I wouldn’t think any more about 
it : it will soon blow over.” 

“Wouldn’t think any more about it!” Very good, 
very easily said; only, like the most of Judith’s advice, 
it wasn’t practical, and couldn’t be followed. Marian 
thought more than ever. How could she help it? 
Thought till her young heart was sick with shame. 

Robert — henceforth Dr. Willard — returned from 


312 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


Philadelphia in November, and for the first time in 
her life she was afraid of him, and ran and hid every 
time she heard a footstep in the hall. She might have 
spared herself the pains, for Robert did not call. He 
was very much taken up with two or three old women, 
who had put themselves in his hands, and expected 
him to make them over as good as new. 

“Seems to me Robert isn’t very social,” said Dr. 
Prescott, one night at the tea-table. “I have only seen 
him once, and that was on the street.” 

“ I’d like some of the quince, if you please, papa.” 

“ What ! Not in your tea-cup, daughter ! ” 

The tea-cup was withdrawn so suddenly that Benjie 
laughed, and swallowed a crumb the wrong way. Mar- 
ian thought it the strangest thing that she should have 
been so absent-minded, when she was taking special 
pains to appear unconcerned. That miserable self- 
consciousness which came over her every time Rob- 
ert’s name was mentioned, what would it drive her 
into next? 

“ Father,” said she, speaking very fast, “ Mr. Bailey’s 
new paper — the Cynosura Star — has stopped.” 

“Ah, I thought it was nothing more than a shooting 
star. I am not surprised.” 

“But it troubles Judith.” 

“Judith is always in trouble, and always will be till 
she goes out of herself, and throws her energies into 
a proper channel.” 

“But you don’t want her husband to fail in 
business ? ” 

“What husband? That Bailey? He isn’t her 


A QUEER LITTLE STORY. 


31 $ 


husband yet, and, never will be. It’s too bad to be 
thought of.” 

“Papa, you’re always so hard on Fordyoe.” 

“Ain I? I suppose I can’t forget that he once re- 
fused to marry my daughter,” said the doctor, glancing 
at the fair face opposite, with a merry twinkle in his 
eye, and behind the twinkle a very sincere look of ad- 
miration. If there was a brighter, bonnier, more win- 
some lassie alive than “ my daughter Marian,” he hadn’t 
found it out. 

“O, fie, father; he didn’t mean to steal my heart. 
It was only an accident, and you ought to forgive 
him,” said Marian, with a light laugh, which showed 
she was no longer sensitive on that point. 

“ So I ought, for he restored it to you like a gentle- 
man.” 

A sudden cloud passed over Marian’s face. She was 
thinking, — 

“ My father little knows, when he jokes about that, 
that I have done almost the same thing myself. 
Haven’t I restored Robert Willard’s heart to him — 
like a lady ? And didn’t wait till he offered it, either ! 
Post-haste — no time wasted! I can seem to see that 
boy laugh in his sleeve. He must think I’m so oblig- 
ing ! Saved him all the trouble of speaking ! ” 

“ But I’ll tell you the one I’m afraid I can’t forgive,” 
went on her father, in a playful mood ; “ and that is 
the man who really comes and steals that little heart, 
and isn’t honest enough to bring it back again. That 
will cost me dear, you see. I’m glad he keeps away 
so long.” 


314 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


The doctor was only indulging in a little paternal 
gallantry. His words had no special meaning; why 
should Marian look so confused ? 

“ I am glad he keeps away so long ” had no allu- 
sion to Robert, as she very well knew when she came 
to think a moment. 


QUEER LITTLE STORY CONTINUED. 315 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 



QUEER LITTLE STORY CONTINUED. 

)HY, Robert, is that you ? ” exclaimed Mar- 
ian, entering the library with the feather 
duster in her hand. She must have been 
very much surprised to find him there, for as he came 
in at one door, she had run out at the other. 

“ How do you do ? ” said the new doctor, turning 
over a “ book of bones,” and forgetting to shake hands. 

It was well he did not look up at once. He might 
have thought Marian was sick ; but by the time he had 
come to the end of that very interesting paragraph, the 
bright color had crept back again to her cheeks. 

“ What do you hear from Keller ? ” said he, taking 
down another book. 

“Ah!” thought Marian, with a little shiver, “he 
doesn’t care whether I’m alive or dead. I was anxious 
to find out, and now I know.” 

“Keller? O, he entered college before you went 
away — didn’t he ? some time in September. He hard- 
ly limps at all ; just lame enough, he writes, to escape 
hazing.” 

“There, that was a long sentence,” thought she, 
throwing her head back with a feeling of relief, “ and 
nothing out of the way in it, I’m sure.” 


316 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


“Glad to hear it,” said Dr. Willard, putting back 
two books, and taking down another, while he thought 
in his turn, — 

“ How handsome Marian grows ! But proud as Lu- 
cifer. She needn’t toss her head in that style. W ants 
me to understand that she doesn’t care any more for 
me than she does for ‘those tongs.’ Tongs was th^ 
word. Well, she may not find me as troublesome as 
she expects.” 

There was a little pause, during which Robert read 
a table of Latin weights and measures backward, and 
Marian dusted everything faithfully, from the diction- 
ary to the door-knob. 

“I wish Judith Willard had attended to her own af- 
fairs,” groaned she, inwardly. “ What shall I do to let 
Robert know I don’t believe her story? He never 
cared the least thing about me, and now he’ll go to 
hating me. Don’t I know how I felt towards Fordyce 
Bailey ? I declare it’s a crying shame. But I can’t say 
a word ; it would be very improper, and of course he 
despises me too much to allude to the subject.” 

“ Cool weather,” said Robert, putting back the las^ 
book, and moving towards the door. 

“ V ery,” returned Marian, looking up with a glance 
that held him to the spot half a minute ; it seemed to 
say so plainly, “ Why do you go ? ” 

“But I won’t be a dunce,” thought he, giving him 
self a mental shaking. “ Good morning, Marian.” 

“ O, Judith, Judith,” thought Marian, rushing up to 
her chamber, and shutting herself in. “What have 
you done? You think no one has any troubles but 


QUEER LITTLE STORY CONTINUED . 317 


yourself; but I say it’s a hard case to lose such a good 
friend as Robert, just for a piece of foolishness.” 

Meanwhile, Judith, absorbed in her own affairs, 
which did not run very smoothly, saw nothing of what 
was going on. She had saved Robert from making a 
fool of himself, and having done her duty, thought no 
more about it. She did not know what made him so 
quiet, — scarcely speaking unless asked a question, — 
and at the same time so restless, running from one 
thing to another, but presumed It was his worry about 
business. Dr. Prescott had made him a very tempting 
offer, and was really anxious to take him into partner- 
ship. There could hardly be a better opening for a 
young man, for Dr. Prescott ranked, to say the least, 
as the first physician in the county. 

Still Robert held back. He wanted to think it over 
a while. Dr. Ephraim Ware, brother of the man who 
nad been Mrs. Prescott’s fellow-sufferer in Cuba, was 
about to retire from an excellent practice in the western 
part of the state, and proposed Dr. Willard’s taking his 
place. 

“ It isn’t best to settle for life in a hurry,” said the 
young Esculapius, trying his best to weigh both these 
propositions carefully, and without the least reference 
to Marian. 

“ What would she care ? It’s lucky for me I found 
out her state of mind so early in the day, though I can’t 
say I thank Judith for interfering. Marian probably 
considers me a moon-struck swain. I saw her lip curl 
when she spoke to me. Well, if I do decide to go into 
practice with her father, I guess I can contrive to keep 
out of her way ! Thank goodness, there’s a street door 


318 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


to the office. She is the only girl in the world for me, 
and I always did have a hope that some time — And 
who knows but now, if Judith hadn’t — But no! when 
it comes to comparing me to a pair of tongs, that settles 
the matter ! ” 

So said Robert, and thought hope was dead, when it 
was only buried alive — buried under resolutions and 
impediments mountain high ; but somehow there was 
always a loophole for air to steal in, and the faint little 
hope breathed the breath of life still. 

When Marian heard through Judith, as they were 
walking home from church together, that Robert had 
at last decided to accept her father’s offer, she merely 
said, — 

“ Has he?” 

w O, Marian, isn’t it so nice we can keep him at 
home ? ” 

“ See her,” thought Marian, “ walking this street per- 
fectly serene, like an elephant that’s trod upon a worm, 
and never noticed it ! If she did but know, it’s any- 
thing but nice for me , this keeping Robert at home ! ” 

Certainly. Very trying, very mortifying; but in 
spite of that, and underneath it all, exquisitely delight- 
ful too! Why so? Marian did not stop to inquire. 
She knew she could not help being “ rather glad,” but 
supposed it was because Robert was rid of those 
W ares. She never liked the family, and she had been 
so afraid he would get mixed up with Dr. Ephraim. 
How it had troubled her! You see she always did 
want Robert to do well ; she was proud of him ; and 
then the time had been when they were such good 
friends. He and her father suited each other, and 


QUEER LITTLE STORT CONTINUED. 319 

m 

ought to be together ; it was a fine thing for them 
both. 

“ I shan’t take any peace of my life, having a person 
in the house I can’t look in the face; still, my father 
has too hard a time, and for his sake I’m glad.” 

Thus Marian’s feelings were very much like the 
waters of the lake in the Land of Roses — half bitter, 
half sweet. 

The sign over the office door was taken down, and a 
new one put up with Robert’s name added. But Marian 
had more peace of her life than she had expected, which 
shows it is never best to borrow trouble. Robert, hav- 
ing resolved to convince her — and himself, too — that 
he was not a moon-struck swain, devoted his whole 
soul to his profession, and many a day passed that she 
did not see him at all. She began to wish he would 
bring the evening mail, for then she should be sure of 
a peep at his face once a day. It was so odd not to 
have him running in, and she was always thinking of 
little things ' she wanted to say ; but of course he 
wouldn’t bring the mail, since that fuss with Fordyce’s 
letter, unless specially requested. And who was going 
to request him? Not Marian! If he chose to keep 
himself at arm’s length, let him do it ; she had no idea 
of coaxing and wheedling anybody that disliked her so. 

The winter was not half as pleasant as usual. Both 
these proud souls were smoothly polite ; but every ice- 
cold “ How do you do ? ” was spoken farther and far- 
ther off, till there was every prospect that they would 
soon be bowing to each other from the north and south 
poles. 

“ Robert relieves me even more than I expected,” Dr. 


320 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


Prescott often remarked, as he leaned back to enjoy 
his newspaper; he was seldom called out now in the 
evening. “I did hope my oldest son would be the one 
to take my place, but next to him I should certainly 
choose Robert.” 

“Keller taught a capital school last winter,” said 
Marian, who always found something else to talk about 
when Robert’s name was mentioned. 

“Yes, and if he proves as good at law as he is at 
teaching, I’ve no fault to find. I consider myself rarely 
blessed in all my children. To be sure my oldest 
daughter did run away from home, but my second one 
has been faithful thus far, and expects to spend her 
days with me.” 

“Yes, indeed, you may be sure of that, papa” 

“There, that will do. I don’t ask for any promises. 
Poor little girl ! I was afraid the care might be too 
heavy for your tender shoulders ; but, bless us, you 
have such a buoyant way with you, child ! Why, you 
soar above your petty trials, up, up, and singing like the 
skylark. Do you know it?” 

“ I know you say so, father.” 

But as Marian drew the darning needle through 
Benjie’s gray sock, she said to herself, — 

“ I sometimes think people are a little too sure about 
what goes on in other people’s minds. He doesn’t 
know I was out of patience with life not two hours ago, 
and asking, ‘Is this all there is to it?’” 

“ And, my daughter, I count you very fortunate, after 
all, to have had your time so filled with ministering to 
others. Look at Judith! What has she had to think 
of but herself? Idleness isn’t so bad for common- 


QUEER LITTLE STORY CONTINUED. 321 


place people, but those of the poetical temperament, like 
you and her, need employment — must have it.” 

“Have I the poetical temperament, father? I can't 
rhyme decently.” 

“You know what I mean. You are both of you 
sensitive and imaginative, prone to expect too much in 
life. Let such people float along with no aim or ob- 
ject, and no particular call on their energies, and — espe- 
cially if they haven’t sound health to begin with — 
they grow morbid, exaggerate their trials, and ‘the deep 
poetic heart’ becomes a lump of anguish in their breasts. 
What’s the matter with Judith now? Remorse about 
Silas, I hope ! Better late than never.” 

“ Not that exactly, papa.” 

“T see you hesitate, dear. I had no right to ask 
you.” 

“ O, yes, sir, you had ; and it will do no harm to tell 
you. She has not heard from Mr. Bailey since last 
October, nearly six months ago. Isn’t that enough to 
make anybody look sober?” 

“Depends upon circumstances. It wouldn’t distort 
my countenance — not in the least ! ” 

At that moment there was a quick peal of the office- 
bell, so abrupt and decisive that it brought Marian and 
her father both to their feet. 

“The young doctor,” gasped a little boy, who had 
evidently run himself out of breath — “the young doc- 
tor — just alive — quick as you can go.” 

“ What has happened to him ? Where is he ? ” 

“Don’t know — down to my house. They didn’t 
say — fell off his horse. Broke his neck, I guess.” 

At these terrible words, Marian sank deathly white 
21 


822 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


upon the sofa. Dr. Prescott, without looking at her, 
or asking another question, seized his hat, and ran. 
Marian, who had not uttered one word, caught the mes- 
senger, Hen Page, by the arms, and pulled him down to 
her. The little fellow, frightened at sight of her 
white lips moving, while no words came, screamed out 
to reassure her, — 

“ He’s alive yet. They told me to say he’s alive.” 

“ Who’s alive ? ” asked a manly voice, ringing clear 
and loud in the hall ; and behold Robert himselt, safe 
and sound, walking into the office ! At the same mo- 
ment, to his intense surprise, the cool-mannered Mar- 
ian sprang up with a glad cry, and threw both arms 
round his neck. 

“You see she thought you’s dead,” exclaimed the 
wonder-eyed little boy. “I told her you wasn’t, — not 
quite, — and she’s been gripping hold of me ever since, 
and trying to holler.” 

“ Why, Marian, I was just walking along from the 
post-office. What does this mean ? Bless your little 
heart, Marian, don’t tremble so.” 

Her arms had been suddenly withdrawn from his 
neck, and she was laughing and crying at once. 

“ Thought I was dead — did she ? And she cared as 
much as this?” 

Robert looked as if he was quite willing to be vic- 
tim of a false report, under such circumstances. 

“ What did I say? What was I saying?” sobbed 
the poor mortified girl, speaking at last, and wrenching 
her hands from Robert’s grasp. “You naughty little 
Hen Page! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” 

“D’you s’pose I went and did it a purpose?” re- 


QUEER LITTLE STORY CONTINUED. 323 

turned Hen, standing on his dignity. “They sent me 
liggitty split.” 

“Do you wonder it frightened me, Robert? He 
said you’d fallen off your horse, and broken your 
neck, and my father ran for dear life. Do you wonder 
it frightened me, Robert?” 

“ No, not at all ; it was the most natural thing in the 
world,” replied the young doctor, meekly ; and his 
spirits sank as he spoke. “But do lie down, dear; 
you’re as pale as a ghost.” 

Marian curled herself into a heap of mortified pride 
on the sofa. 

“ I should have done the same, and felt exactly as 
bad, Robert Willard, if it had been your old horse that 
had broken his neck,” sobbed she. 

That was a little too absurd. Even Hen Page tit- 
tered, and a sly twinkle came into Robert’s eyes. A 
vase stood on the table, which she had filled with flow- 
ers that morning. He seized it, and scattered its con- 
tents right and left. 

“ Don’t try to talk,” said he, bending over her, and 
sprinkling her face with a geranium leaf. He did not 
like to hear her tell wrong stories, I suppose. She 
closed her eyes in desperation, conscious that all she 
said and did only made matters worse. 

“ Look here, doctor,” said the little boy, watching the 
man with broken bones, kneeling so pliantly before his 
fair patient, “didn’t you get hurt anywhere? What 
for pity sakes d’they mean ? ” 

No reply. Dr. Willard was fully absorbed in wait- 
ing for the opening of a pair of wilful blue-gray eyes. 
He had not had a fair sight at them for half a year at 


324 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


least, and now they were completely cornered, and the 
little story they had been hiding he was determined to 
get at, let it read as it might. 

The situation was growing embarrassing. Marian 
could not pretend any longer to feel faint, for her face 
was rosy red, but open her eyes she would not. She 
must have known from the little remarks Robert made 
in a low tone, that he was not at all offended ; indeed, 
quite the reverse ; and there was nothing to be afraid of, 
nothing in the world but those keen brown orbs, — the 
very “remarkable” ones, — which she felt were looking 
straight down into her soul. 

That little boy ought to have gone away then. It 
was clear even to his ten-years-old vision that “Benjie’s 
sister and the young doctor liked each other first rate,” 
as he afterwards reported; but being of an inquiring 
mind, he still lingered. 

A happy thought came to Robert. 

“Ah, ha, Hen, what day of the month is it?” 

“An April fool, by George ! ” burst forth the little fel- 
low; and he tore out of the office, swinging his cap. 
He had been making wee jokes all day, but such a stu- 
pendous one as this was quite beyond him. 

“ I’ll bet I know who started it,” said he ; for nobody 
but his big brother, “ Picked Evil,” would ever have 
presumed to trifle so with Dr. Prescott. 

A wicked, impertinent trick ; but neither Robert nor 
Marian felt proper indignation towards Picked Evil. 
If they were April fools, they liked their folly, and 
thought it better than the wisdom of Solomon. Robert 
was within an inch of quoting poetry, which showed he 
was certainly light-headed. 



MISS O'NEIL WALKS INTO THE ROOM. Page 325. 


































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QUEER LITTLE STORY CONTINUED. 325 


“ And then she looked down on me 
With a look that placed a crown on me.” 

For Marian had opened her eyes at last, and fastened 
them on his coat-collar. But at this interesting junc- 
ture Miss O’Neil walked into the room. 

“ Of all things ! ” exclaimed she, taking in the situa- 
tion at a glance. “ The wind bloweth and it listetli ; 
but I must say I’m surprised this time. I never al- 
lowed gentlemen to kneel to me, Miriam Linscott. 
Judge Dillingham did it once at a picnic, and I got him 
up as quick as I could ; but he ground an awful grass 
stain into the knees of his white trousers.” 

Marian was sitting bolt upright now, and Robert be- 
side her, laughing heartily. 

“Hullo here!” shouted Benjie, bustling in with great 
pretended excitement ; “ d’you know Mr. Liscom’d fal- 
len off his horse and broke his neck?” 

“ That joke is worn pretty thin, my boy,” returned 
Robert. 

But it took immediate effect on Miss O’l/dL 

“ You don’t say so ! Poor Phebe Liscom ! Do good 
in thy good pleasure unto Zion ! How strange it is 
that of all Hiram’s three wives, she sho /id be the only 
one left to see him buried ! ” 

Robert laughed in the most heartless manner, think- 
ing what a lonesome funeral it would be with only one 
widow for mourner, and did not attempt to stop Miss 
O’Neil, who hurried to the scene of the tragedy, fol- 
lowed by young Benjie, with his handkerchief stuffed 
in his mouth. 

Five minutes later Dr. Prescott returned, fuming with 
honest indignation against Picked Evil and all bis clan. 


326 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


Dr. Willard and Marian were talking too fast to hear 
the sound of his footsteps. And, as they happened to 
be looking straight at each other, they very naturally 
did not see him as he paused on the threshold. 

“ Well, well,” thought he, turning on his heel with 
“a slow, wise smile,” “I don’t appear to be wanted 
here.” 

By which he must have meant that his daughter was 
in good hands. When he left her he had feared a case 
of hysterics; but his partner certainly knew enough to 
manage that ! It was from no doubt of the young doc- 
tor’s professional skill that the old doctor walked out 
of the house with a face almost tearful. No; it was 
the new look in Marian’s eyes which had touched him 
so, — the soulful, trusting look, like her dear lost 
mother. He was not displeased by the sudden turn 
of affairs, and, if not very much surprised either, that 
only shows his native shrewdness of mind. 

“ I could not have asked better for our daughter,” 
said he. “ Helen herself would be satisfied. I believe 
the children were designed for each other; and it is no 
light fancy, but a love that will outlast time.” 

Still the lonely man could not help feeling saddened. 
Marian was all he had left to make sunshine for him, 
and without her his home would be desolate. He had 
hoped to keep her with him several years longer, for, 
according to his theory, no woman should be married 
under twenty-five. 

“ To a father waxing old, 

Nothing is dearer than a daughter,” 

thought he. “But she shall never know how much it 
costs me to give her up.” 


THE END. 


327 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE END. 

Miss Tottenham . 

September 3. 

Jfj/^WENTY to-day. I wrote you fifteen pages full 
of sentiment, Miss Tottenham, a year and a 
j{^ half ago, or thereabouts, before I had settled 
down to my new happiness, and could take it reasona- 
bly ; but, though everything I said was only the truth, 
it sounded so flimsy that I had to cut it out. There 
are some things too precious to be talked about, and I 
do wonder how people can parade them before the 
world. I can’t speak of them even to Judith. 

She says I needn’t talk of her being fickle, for didn’t 
I declare I wouldn’t marry a doctor, and then go and 
accept the first medical man that proposed? “Worse 
than that,” said I; “for he didn’t propose; he only 
gave me a conundrum about a pair of tongs. Sol- 
emnly, Judith, I never had an olfer in my life.” 

She laughed, but I suspect she doubts the depth of 
my feeling because I won’t talk seriously. Why, Miss 
Tottenham, it’s too sweet, it’s too sacred, to bear any 
discussion. 

We are to be married next Christmas. O, if mother 
were only here to see me write the words! And I 


328 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER . 


think she is, for I feel to-night just as I used to when 
I sat on the low ottoman with my head in her lap. I 
have done what I know she would like : I have ar- 
ranged to live here at home with my father and Benjie. 
I told Robert he was worth marrying, but he wasn’t 
worth leaving home for, and I must stay and take 
care of mother’s “ legacy.” I was very decided ; but it 
didn’t cost me much, for he loves my father dearly, and 
thinks just as I do about it. 

I assure you, Miss Tottenham, I shall never forget 
how pleased my father looked when we told him our 
plan. He had been trying so hard to make believe he 
was willing to give me up ; but when he found I 
wouldn’t be given up, he put both arms round me and 
blessed me. I turned to Robert, and told him that just 
finished my joy for this world ! 

I must not forget to speak of Judith. It was rather 
hard for her when Fordyce married that rich young 
widow of Lynn ; but she is glad of it now, and smiles 
at her past foolishness, which she says would never have 
reached such a climax if she had had work enough to 
do to keep her out of mischief. She seems like another 
person since aunt Esther went away. But you don’t 
know about that. 

Aunt Esther’s husband returned from California; 
there was a reconciliation, and he took her back with 
him. Then Robert thought Tid was having too hard 
a time, and sent her to boarding-school, and Judith has 
had charge of the family ever since; for, though 
Brooksey Waters does the hard work, she needs look- 
ing after, and to be told when to put on the potatoes, 


THE END. 


329 


as much as a small child. Judith has waked up won- 
derfully. She said to me the other day, — 

“ I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty ; 

I woke, and found that life was duty.” 

I am so glad she sees things differently! She writes 
poetry still, but only when she has a good right to the 
time. She says she shall never be married. Of course 
I pay no attention to that, and hope it won’t come true. 
Still, there would be a risk in it; for how can she ever 
be sure it’s the right man? And, as dear aunt Filura 
says, “ A sensible woman is sure to be happy single ; 
but marriage is very uncertain business.” 

Uncertain ? Not for me. It may be for those who 
can’t marry Robert ! But with him at my side, and my 
heavenly Father above me, how can I be afraid? 

December 23. It will be a very quiet wedding. Pan* 
line has arranged everything; so you may know it’si 
just right. Only I would have Miss O’Neil and Thank- 
ful Works, because I pity them so. Pauline had to 
lend Thankful her gray ladies’ cloth dress to make her 
respectable. I guess that poor creature finds there are 
some things harder than getting up in the night to 
hurrah for McClellan. 

I am glad Silas Hackett is in Chicago ; though it is 
piite absurd what Keller says about Judith. 

“ She doesn’t care for things till they are out of hei 
reach. You know ‘there is no cream like that which 
rises on spilled milk.’ ” 

Naughty boy ! He is to be Robert’s groomsman, and 
I wanted Judith for bridesmaid; but it is to be Marie 
Smith ; if you can’t guess why, no matter. 

There is Benjie thumping at the door. He seems to 


330 


THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 


think I am going to be hung, and he won’t lose sight 
of me if he can help it. 

And now, good by, Miss Tottenham. I salute your 
cheek. You are sure to keep your lips shut; for, see, 
I put you in a big envelope, and paste you down with 
mucilage. Good by, discreet old friend, good by 1 


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